Secret
by Father Vengeance
Summary: Memorial Day weekend is Castle's chance to show her where it all began for him. But the secrets they both harbor aren't all grim. Some of them might just be the keys to seeing them through this challenging getaway and the initial hurdles of making a go of it together. Season 2 Finale AU. T for language, violence, and some sexual content.
1. First Steps

**The premise of this story isn't lacking for travel. That's both funny and sad.**

 **It began with me in a collection called Night People as a developing sub plot. While I was away, I met a good friend who proposed building upon its central theme in a stand-alone tale called Promises in C-Minor. I absolutely loved what he did there. Now, here, it's come back around to me again. Twice now it's been forced to linger unfinished, and for legitimate reasons both times. Terrible reasons.**

 **As I take this through one final attempt at completion, blending both our efforts as well as adding to them, I'm dedicating the effort to John and Allie, whose friendships I sorely miss. Get it together you two! And be well until we meet again.  
**

* * *

"Look, I know I'm not the easiest person to get to know, and I don't always let on what's on my mind." There's a minuscule twitch of Castle's lips. Beckett discerns an approximation of what he's smart enough not to say, even the amused tone in which it would surely emerge: _No shit? I hadn't noticed._ "But this past year working with you.." she trails off with an illustrative sweep of her gaze to encompass their surrounds. "I've had a really good time."

Even though she's caught him off guard, bemused him with their sudden seclusion from the others, the author doesn't hesitate to broadcast agreement with mirrored lifts at the corners of his mouth. "Me too."

It's like gasoline being poured over a fire, fueling her sputtering flame of courage. In fact her smile threatens to spill wide open and leave her stupefied before him. The detective manages to plow onward. "So, I'm just going to say this..."

Her pause elicits a turn of his head to look around the bullpen. His eyebrows arch with mild puzzlement as the gaze beneath them settles on her again. "Okay," he prompts, drawing the word out some in pointed fashion.

"Uh, sorry. I-I'm used to something interrupting at moments like this."

"You've noticed that too!" her companion blurts with those blue eyes wide. "I thought that was just in my head." He purses his lips into a plump line and crosses both arms at his sternum. "It's wildly annoying." He's so stern she almost laughs. But this time they've become their own interruption and they realize it at the same instant. They grin at one another. Castle rolls his wrist to coax her into continuing.

"Right. Anyway, I wanted to say: if the invitation is still open, I'd really like to join you in the Hamptons."

For a handful of moments the surprise and happiness she'd been hoping to see blooms in full on the writer's countenance. Wonder slips into the expression via a slight gape of his mouth. And then, to her immediate and intense horror, the expression is rent by a crack of some internal realization behind his gaze. It all comes tumbling down swiftly from there into a look of such obvious remorse she almost turns on the spot and flees for the stairs. The only cogent thought in her head is a grim warning to her own ego: _brace yourself, bitch, this is gonna hurt._

But the author, so seldom at a loss for words, remains mute with his lips poised to shatter her.

Beckett lunges for the opportunity unwittingly provided. Maybe she can salvage some pride here after all. Her features adopt a ruefulness that's actually as honest as the afternoon sunlight pouring in the windows around them. "That's the look of someone who has already filled the vacancy. You don't have to look _that_ horrified, Castle, jeez. It's okay. Maybe we'll try it another time." It is so _not_ okay. Her co-workers are watching. Her besty is watching. She wants to crawl under her desk and ride out this apocalypse of embarrassment like the kids being taught to 'duck and cover' in those black and white videos from the fifties.

Her partner drifts half a step away from her, cocks an eyebrow, and allows one edge of his mouth to tighten with dim humor. "No, there's no one else. I didn't compose a list of back-up options, detective." The distancing body language and use of the generic honorific implies she's stung him with her assumption, but his mild tone attempts to conceal that fact. And he's damned right to do so. His playboy persona isn't _her_ creation after all.

Beckett stares for the longest time while her head catches up. She hears herself foolishly reply, "Oh."

"I'd be thrilled to go together. I'm just, ah, surprised. What about Demming?"

"Thankfully his deposit is refundable. Though, frankly, I suspect that's cold comfort right about now."

The author's eyebrows lift again at the boldness of her reply. She regrets hurting Tom, but she's not even remotely sorry about the choice she's made. Castle gets that. His lips quiver and curve as if doing so against his volition. That ceases quickly, however, and he moistens them while a flawlessly serious mien overcomes him. It's rare to see, and it makes her insides quiver with renewed concern. "You said something to me yesterday that really stuck."

 _So did you_ , she thinks, easily recalling the pit that opened at her core to hear those three dreaded words: our last case. The detective shifts where she stands and cants her head slightly. "Go on."

"You said you wanted your private life to be private. I've been thinking about that a lot since then."

"Me too. I'd like you to be part of that privacy if you still want to be. I mean...one thing at a time, you know? But I want that first one thing, and I wanna see where it goes from there." His smile shone so sudden and wide it sets her heart to hammering against her ribcage. "I'll take that as agreement," she croaks.

A breath of laughter escapes him along with a pair of swift nods. "You better believe it."

She lays the heel of her palm in the center of her chest as if the flesh and bone needed the extra cushioning to contain the organ going bonkers within it. "You looked...I-I thought you were gonna say no."

"I was."

"Jeez," she hisses softly, not in admonishment exactly, but surprise and confusion. "Why?"

Castle looks to the floor between them. "Because I invited you without fully considering the matter. All that seemed important at the time was that going away together would be fun. I knew I could do that, and in a way that wouldn't ruin what you already had going." He smiles fleetingly while meeting her eyes again. "But yesterday you wanted our private lives to stay that way. I realized I couldn't bring you to Montauk. The history there is rife with details that, for me, are the very essence of private. It's funny...well, sad I suppose: it wasn't until you set our limitations that I realized how much I wanted us to be personal. There's so much I want to tell you, the way you have with me."

Beckett exhaled a slow breath. "You weren't going to stop coming to the twelfth because of Tom."

The author's brow furrowed deeply. "Kate, no." Good heavens. Her first name on his lips is the most unspeakably intimate word in the English language. "I can see why you might think so, but no. I'd be very pleased to see you happy. But I do want to see that from the inside. Whether as a friend or more is a distant second place. Your story has come to mean a great deal to me, from the past to the present day-to-day of it all. But it's not something I want to experience from an outside perspective anymore. I thought: better to let go cleanly than to stay out in the cold, so to speak."

"I didn't want that for you. I _really_ didn't. But I thought it might be easier for both of us to have boundaries."

"Boundaries are okay. Just...not so close, please."

"Yeah, well, I've thrown down one mother of a rope ladder for you at this point, so it's kinda moot." Hopefully her face isn't so foolishly gob-smacked with joy as his right now. It probably is. _Oh well._

Her partner shifts where he stands, all but quivering with anticipation. "So...we're really going?"

Beckett's expression diminishes to a wry smirk. "I'm already packed and everything." _God, poor Tom._

"Oh," the author issues with a visible wince of sympathy, "that's so wrong. And yet so fortuitous."

"I'm not going home to choose new stuff. Traffic is already picking up." It's not like she packed anything that could be called one of the robbery detective's favorite items to see her wear. They hadn't been together long enough for those tastes to develop. Actually, now that she thought about it, she'd chosen plenty of the packed items based on what has caught the eye of the man she's set to depart with presently. _Fortuitous indeed._

Slowly, almost cautiously, her partner offers a hand to claim. She swallows thickly at the sight of so much hope and joy staring back at her, this startling reflection of what is alive within her. "Are you sure?"

She takes it and their fingers thread together with haunting smoothness. "You bet your ass."

Twenty minutes later, as she's waiting on the sidewalk for Castle's car to emerge from a parking garage, a deeply chagrined Beckett text-messages their friends a belated goodnight, knowing damn well as she does that they'll be howling with laughter about it among themselves. Hindsight. It's a meanie. _Again: oh well_.


	2. Word of Warning

They take one of his cars out of the city: a 2010 Bentley Continental GT. The convertible bears a marginally subtler profile than the Ferrari and a more comfortable ride. Something about the machine just...gets to Beckett. Watching it emerge from the parking garage with the sunlight gleaming along the deepest black paint job she's ever seen sets her teeth to clenching. Luxury and elegance are two of the automobile's advertising points, but to her it looks like something engineered to roar furiously at break-neck speed upon the razor edge of control, and she feels a sharp sympathetic eagerness.

Castle rolls down the driver's side window, takes one lasting look at her, and sighs with pointed volume as he gets out and walks around to the passenger side. The detective grins with shameless delight and darts forward to slide into the cool, cozy seating. A bit of fiddling adjusts the space to her height. She yelps in surprise at the sensation of the seat cushion shifting subtly beneath her. It configures itself into an approximation of the shape of her butt.

Her companion pouts at her as she wiggles her hips experimentally. "Is it weird that I'm a little jealous right now?"

"Wow," she replies, quivering with amusement. "This is your car alright. Overabundant and obscene. Buckle up, pervert."

Hand-stitched leather, polished wood paneling, digital everything—their ride screams affluence. The earthy hues of the interior elicit some suspicion that the owner bore her specifically in mind while choosing the color scheme, subconsciously if nothing else. There's her hair color, her eye color. _That's not creepy at all._ Nothing dissuades such minor concerns quite like the feel of six-hundred horsepower at ones beck and call.

She puts too much on it when the first red light flips to green; the car growls out something downright bestial and tears away from the line with all the suddenness of a predator in motion. The sound widens her eyes and sends a tingle down the length of her spine. She strokes at the steering wheel in reply. "Oh, baby, _yes_. Talk dirty to me."

Her passenger snorts quietly and shakes his head.

They skirt Hell's Kitchen along the 9A and whip their way around to the upper GW. Traffic is too thick for screwing around, but Beckett is a safe driver even when she doesn't have to be. Judging by her passengers reaction, that is a matter for some debate when she's forced to slip between a pair of tractor trailers to make the exit for the Cross Island Parkway. It's not _that_ small a gap, but he latches onto the oh-shit handle and grimaces. An air horn bellows protestation in their wake, but within the luxury sports car it is almost indiscernible. A little thrill runs through her...so, okay, maybe it was that small.

Castle exhales audibly, plops a hand over his chest, and scrunches his upper half some to study the view in the passenger side mirror. "I don't see anything, but I'm pretty sure we left my early-forties back there."

Beckett huffs out a clipped note of mirth. "I may or may not have climaxed."

"I may or may not be sending you the cleaning bill for that seat, young lady."

Conversation is sparse and light like that until they have put the city limits in the rear-view mirror. Traffic begins to thin out on the LIE. The open countryside is donning fiery hues under the deeply slanting sun behind them. The demand for strict awareness diminishes enough for both to let their attentions focus more upon their surrounds, and on one another.

There is a surreal component to that.

 _Holy shit,_ w _e're really doing this._ Part of her is expecting to wake up in her apartment at any moment and find herself alone in the darkness of her bedroom. She can almost feel the coldness of the sheet where another warm body could, but wouldn't, be lying next to her. Another part of her is tensed and waiting for her companion to do...something. Something wrong. She awaits an act that will prove to both of them what a colossal mistake this is. Waking up alone and aching from such a pleasant dream as 'them' thus far might be preferable to that.

But the author nearby has set the lenses of his Bvlgari sunglasses on the horizon before them and seems, for all the world, to be content in silence. He doesn't squirm or fiddle, doesn't play with the radio or his cell phone. She's never seen him so uncharacteristically still.

"What gives?" she finally asks.

"Hrm?"

The detective shifts in her seat and lofts a few fingers from the wheel. "Well, look at you. I can count on the fingers of one hand how many times we've enjoyed such a peaceful ride, and few of those were even half as long as this one."

Castle sits upright more in her peripherals and his lips tug into a puzzled frown as though he were only just then realizing his own good behavior. It's funny to behold, but having it pointed out doesn't dissuade him from it. At length he shrugs his left shoulder and says, "I'm a little hungry."

"Huh? Is that your explanation, or are you asking to stop?"

"The second one."

Beckett clicks her tongue against her teeth. "I'll pull over if you answer me."

"Really? You're going to hold my grumbling belly hostage?"

"I'm not gonna lie: it's pretty nefarious of me. I bet if you squint there's an informative lesson to be learned somewhere in there about absconding with a detective for a weekend getaway. That's good to know, huh?"

Castle's smirking even as he turns away some and sighs quietly. The reluctance is a little bewildering. Finally, he says, "I suppose I'm simply happier with the journey as it stands now more than I am eager to reach a destination."

 _Well now._ That shuts her up for the next several miles. She pulls into a gas station ten minutes later and watches him head inside. Then she drops her forehead onto the wheel with a soft bleat from the horn. "Please," she issues aloud, though a prayer feels a bit alien on her lips. _Please don't let me screw the pooch on this one, God. Love, Katie._

"Hey, lady, cool it!" Beckett lifts her head to find a scowling old man in a tan wind-breaker guiding his wife along the walkway past the nose of the Bentley. She startled them with the horn. The rail-thin, white-haired woman clinging to his elbow lifts her other spindly arm with a sway of her floral print dress and gives Kate the finger.

 _So...is that a 'no' on the assist? 'Cause it looks like a no.  
_

Her partner returns within a few minutes. He's procured a Snapple iced tea for himself, a blackberry flavored Clearly Canadian for her, and a bottle of water that is also for her in case she doesn't approve of his primary suggestion. She does. He opens a bag of cool ranch flavored Doritos and sets them in a neutral zone on the console between them.

"You snack while you're riding around in this holy of holies?"

"I do."

"You fucking heathen," she snarls in mock outrage, and he's surprised into a full, brief laugh.

The sonorous sound zings along her central nervous system like a little zap of electricity. It is a rare thing to hear. The twelfth precinct is not the place for laughter. Oh, it happens, but out of respect for any victims or relatives who might be on the floor somewhere, most officers learn to adopt a quieter quiver of amusement as opposed to the freedom of sound. More than that though, laughter is a social bonding mechanism. In the past, giving in to that act came to resemble a form of capitulation. If she actually laughed, fully and freely, he'd score a point in the game they've been engaged at for the past year. She'd fall behind or lose in some indefinable manner.

Experiencing it now from him, Beckett shakes her head with a wide smile. _Game over. Good riddance to that bit of lunacy._

"You have the most gorgeous smile," her passenger observes. Kate's attention snaps back to him with her eyes widened involuntarily. Her startled reaction elicits a little twitch of his eyebrows, perhaps a blip of regret. He faces forward again, neither smiling nor frowning. He just looks...ready to keep going.

She has her teeth clenched again, and interestingly enough the causality is not so dissimilar to her previous lust for break-neck speed. It just so happens to not involve the car this time. _Jeez, Katie, it was just a compliment. Might be a tad rash to climb into his lap and dry hump him over it_. That's true. Very true. And yet...

The detective rolls her window down and focuses resolutely on the road ahead of them. It isn't long before the west-bound lane to their left is lit by oncoming headlights in addition to the waning influence of twilight. Their mutual silence endures, but it feels much less like a lack of something now, more like a choice. In this unfamiliar terrain, that's a blessedly recognizable element. They've worked closely together long enough to have no trouble slipping in and out of conversation. The quality of it is admittedly charged at present, but even that is not an uncomfortable thing per se.

"I've come to favor the way night falls out here," Castle offers some time later.

"Like a blanket being pulled over the world," she agrees. "Slow and certain."

He nods and goes quiet again for the next half-mile. Then continues, "It wasn't always so. I was afraid of the dark for an inordinate portion of my youth." It is clearly not an admission intended to play to her sense of humor. Even if it were, Richard Castle volunteering personal information strikes her as anything but amusing. "It was a strange variation of the phobia. Our house could be as black as pitch and I was fine, but if I got caught outside, even under the stars and a full moon, I would shake like the crust of the world above a shifting fault line." The fingertips of his right hand, poised aloft by his elbow set upon the window edge, trace pensively across the curve of his lower lip. "Sometimes I still feel it humming in my blood, like the reverberations of an echo that's nearly spent."

Something about the admission strikes her as being inexpressibly sad; a detail she cannot identify, but senses hiding just out of sight behind the actual words he chose. In an attempt to alleviate his grim train of thought she volleys, "Yeah, you must be unsettled. It's not like you to mix metaphors." The author's smile unveils with surprising ease.

"It all tumbles out freely in the first draft," he explains. The brief sideways glance she shoots him snags there and lingers. Those eyes are almost painfully definitive of the man. In the proper lighting they can be as vibrant as raw sapphires. Other times, as now, they gleam as darkly as the very beating heart of midnight. The range of shades in between is all too fitting for a man she's witnessed navigate the gamut of human emotion to its polar extremes. "We're listing," he says calmly.

Beckett jerks her attention back to the road with a little swerve of correction. Her cheeks warm with a blush she's thankful occurs in the concealing dimness of the automobile. _I meant to do that._

"That's exit seventy up ahead," Castle offers.

She slows as they approach it and glides them down the curved incline to merge onto C.R. 111. Traffic is still on the thin side, but ahead of them the evening skyline bears the faint whitish glow of another blotch of civilization. Soon enough, intermittent globes of pale radiance peek over the canopy of the forest paralleling the country road on both sides.

Beckett moistens her lips with a glance to her shadow. "You, uh, mentioned Montauk being 'the very essence of private'." Without his sunglasses on anymore she's privy to the sheer lack of reaction on his face, visible in the bluish radiance cast by the instrument panel. It's clear he's been expecting the question to arise. "Is that a good or bad thing?"

"Mother owned a small home there once, up until I was about six." Her lips purse some at the seeming divergence, but she doesn't interrupt. "Even after she was forced to sell it we vacationed there later on in my teens." He blinks slowly and nods once. "She knew people. I was twenty-five before I finally had the means to buy the beach house."

"Yeah, you were a real late bloomer," she comments with mild sarcasm. He glances over at her with a minimal smile. _Twenty-five. Sheesh._ If Beckett worked all the way up to one-hundred-and-five she still wouldn't be able to swing a summer home on the coast of Long Island. Hell, she can't even afford the property taxes.

"Is my wealth something that gives you pause now that we're...taking steps?"

She loves the way he puts it; no grand verse to compound the pressure, merely the suggestion of the journey that has begun. The driver considers her reply, frowns. "Y'know, I'm not even sure what kind of wealth we're talking about."

"Well, there are obviously some fluctuations involved, but before Nikki Heat came along it was about sixty-seven million."

Her jaw drops like a stone in a pond. "Holy fuckin'—whoa! I-I wasn't asking for the number, Castle, jeez."

"Oh." He shrugs one shoulder with his gaze tracking a passing road sign, unaware or unheeding of the shock that has rooted her in place. "It's one of those things though, right? It's good to know the allowances and limitations."

"Good to know," Beckett quotes mockingly, and damn it, her voice cracks and squeaks.

He remains calm enough for both of them. "So the money _is_ an issue then?"

"No!" Kate expels forcefully and winces, checks her volume. "No," she reiterates more calmly, "it's not an 'issue', Castle. It's just...a lot. To digest that is. No, I mean that literally and figuratively." The passenger looks at her and then back to the road ahead of them. He doesn't seem to know what to say. "Listen, it's great that you want to get more, uh, personal with one another. Just give me a heads-up before you go dropping stuff like that on me, okay?"

The novelist nods in seemingly easy compliance, but the look on his face...

Beckett checks the rear-view, which is clear, and slows to a halt along the side of the road. The rapidity of it surprises the other. _Tit for tat and all that_. He starts to question her purpose, but halts and grimaces to behold her scowl.

"Yeah," she grumbles, turning on the seat to face him more squarely, "you're in for it. Come on, seriously now, look at me." He does, more from the corners of his eyes though. She reaches for his chin and manually aligns their faces across the console dividing them. "I'm happy you asked me to come with you, Rick." Maybe it's the sound of his first name upon the air; she feels the completeness of his focus afterward. "So don't just nod at me. It's a—" she pauses, swallows past the lump of her own trepidation, and starts again. "It's a huge risk for me. If this flops and we can't get past it afterward, I'm losing out big time. We both are, I know, but that's what this is for me personally. It's no small thing."

"For me either," he agrees quietly, deeply.

"Okay," she takes a cleansing breath, "good. Then you can imagine the seriousness the words hold for me when I tell you that I want us to know one another better as we explore this, all those things that we kept to ourselves before. I'm asking for some notice on the, uh, big stuff. I'm _not_ asking for you to stop. There's a difference between the two."

"I can imagine," he confirms, and his exhale is noticeably shaky. _Oh god_... _what?_ "And I appreciate the distinction." It hits her hard just how worried he actually is at that moment. As if gleaning the spreading chill of her awareness, Castle continues, "We're about to wade into something far more meaningful to me than numbers, Beckett. I guess," he adds with a minuscule smile, "you should consider this your word of warning. And that in turn is the answer to your question."

The question of whether his history in Montauk is good or bad. It's bad. _Shit._ Now _she_ has no idea what to say.

* * *

 **A/N: Real quick, I want to welcome everyone to the tale, and thank people for sharing their thoughts so far.  
**


	3. Playing with Fire

Beckett does the only other thing that makes sense in lieu of words, which is to drive. _Keep moving forward._ No more than a mile later a roll of her slender shoulders finds the tension eased some. She's aware of his eyes remaining upon her throughout that small span. Clearly her concern is apparent upon her face. Isn't that an unspoken part of this trip though? Communicating more freely? If she hides from him behind the usual poker-face, what will have changed between them other than their hopes finally being expressed and out in the open? That was a big first step, but a true leap of faith demands more than words to make hope a reality.

When Beckett finally opens her mouth to speak she has no fixed idea of what will emerge. "If you're trying to freak me out, you succeeded." _Okay. A bald statement of truth is certainly one option._

Her companion's visage turns away and lowers some with his gaze fixing towards his feet. "Ah. Sorry."

The admonishment escapes her like the lashing of a bull-whip. "Don't ever apologize to me for opening up. Not ever."

Castle appears to understand that the sharpness of her tone is on his behalf this time, thank goodness. He smiles thinly, fleetingly. "For the awkward lead-in then," he redirects. "I don't mean to be cryptic. You said you wanted the heads up. We're of like mind there," he adds before she can interject. "It certainly isn't something I intended to surprise you with."

The driver takes a calming breath. "What're we talking about here?" She tries to keep her voice light, neutral, and almost succeeds. "Is it something you did? Something that happened to you?"

"It's...a bit more complicated than that."

 _Phew. Wrong answer._ It is for her expectations anyway, which she can feel sinking deeper into gloom. It is almost certainly the latter option. The novelist doesn't have a cruel bone in his body. That fact doesn't seem likely to make what's coming any easier to hear though. "For someone who isn't trying to be cryptic..."

The author's hands curl into fists upon his thighs. "I know," he grits. "I was going to come at this gradually, and definitely not on the road where our attentions are divided. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything."

"No," Kate objects quickly. "You did what I asked you to. It's just one of those situations, I guess: be careful what you wish for. But it's fine, Castle. I'm not upset with you. There's no rush either though, okay? We have all weekend."

"We do," the other confirms. "As for that, there are plenty of good memories in Montauk too. I wouldn't willingly bring you anywhere that was only ugly, Beckett. One grim conversation isn't going to ruin this for us."

"Damn straight it won't. Can I ask though...why this, whatever it is? Why now? There are lots of ways to get personal."

"This began months ago, when you asked where my fascination with the macabre came from." He pauses long enough for her to recall the details of their prior exchange. "That conversation has come and gone from my mind since then, but it refuses to vanish entirely. Maybe in part because you don't ask me things like that very often."

Beckett's lips form a line of displeasure. No, she doesn't. He didn't levy the words as an accusation, but it feels like one. Her conscience is uneasy on the matter. Pride demands a comeback or an immediate deflection. She bypasses that in order to ask, her voice a bit subdued, "Did you want me to ask more often?"

"'Want' is irrelevant in this case," Castle replies evenly, and she looks askance at him to hear the coolness in his tone. "The fact of the matter is: I was unable to answer. Not that I was unwilling to share, you understand. I was literally incapable. That's crazy. Have you ever held something inside so closely and for so long that it actually becomes lodged in there?"

She doesn't answer. _One secret at a time, Rick. It's my turn to listen.  
_

He notices the lack, but doesn't push the matter. "Part of the reason it's so difficult is because it's not only my story to tell. Dragging those events out into the light means exposing other people. Montauk has always been a small town. One person's trouble can quickly become everybody's problem." He shakes his head a couple times. The gesture terminates with him facing the passenger window and the blackness of the forest whipping by. "Silence always suited me fine on the matter. Until now. Now," he expounds dryly, with obvious frustration, "when I don't know how to start. I've only talked about it with one other person who wasn't part of it, and she ended up on the other side of the world afterwards." _Kyra Blaine. So that's what happened..._ "It's important to me to find the right way to present it to you."

"That's understandable. It is. But I'm not her," Beckett reminds him, reaching for his left hand where it's still knotted upon his thigh. She glances away from the road again briefly to watch his digits relax and entwine smoothly with hers for the second time. She's witnessed him go through the manipulations of the espresso machine, button his coat against the chill of winter at a crime scene, play with his phone beside her desk, and countless other simple acts. It's been a long time to be so close and yet so far from knowing what his touch feels like. It's capably, comfortingly broad, with an inherent strength rendered gentle on her behalf. An adulthood of luxury assures an inviting softness. A youth spent working through harder times left behind the dip and grit of a few discernible scars.

She glances over again when his lack of comment becomes prolonged and finds him focused on their hands too. "No," he agrees quietly, "you're not her." His thumb smooths across the ridges of her knuckles. "If anyone out there is equipped to know the story and not let it change the way they see me, that person is you."

"Perceptions change," Beckett cautions gently. "That's what happens the more we learn about one another or experience things together. It doesn't always lead to a dead-end though. I want to see you, because I want us to progress."

His mouth lifts slightly at the corners and one eyebrow ascends fractionally into suggestiveness. There isn't enough emotion present to ascribe much validity to the tease. The detective purses her lips and waggles his hand in hers in playful reproach anyway. He's trying not to cast too great a shadow over the happiness with which their trip began. It's sweet. But if it's a choice between a weekend of fun and frolic or knowing more about him...there's no contest.

They drive on in silence for a ways. She suspects he's holding back specifically to give her room to process what's been said so far. Once it settles in some she finds the respite welcome. Given the work they do together it would be easy for him to assume she'd be able to view the cadavers in his closet without flinching, or that she'd prefer to hear it all now and get it over and done with. It's different when its personal. Castle is a gentle man at his core. The thought of him suffering somehow, even if it's long since over with... That genuinely disturbs her. She wouldn't have figured that to be the case with him. Nothing too bad anyway, not to the man who chases her into distraction and amusement day in day out.

 _Surprise._

Gradually, Beckett climbs out of her thoughts and becomes aware of the slow, sliding repetition of his thumb moving upon her. He moves from the middle knuckle of her index finger down into the slightly webbed gap, and halfway up her middle digit. Then back down to the gap again for a light press and glide of his pad. The pattern repeats while she absorbs the soothing pleasure of it. _Finger sex._ That's what it is. The spread of digits being comparable to a pair of opened legs. She looks askance at him, but there's no indication of devilishness. "Don't make me pull this car over again."

Castle withdraws his grasp along with the rush of a sudden smile. He looks a little amused and a lot surprised to have been nabbed in such a subtle act of flirtation. He clears his throat quietly and settles back to watching the road as though nothing had occurred. _Mmhmm. I've got your number, mister.  
_

She returns her freed appendage to the wheel, privately exhaling a breath of relief. From day one the sexual tension between them has been real, like a dinner being set out upon a long banquet table. Over time, throughout so many little moments, they have laden it with myriad tantalizing exchanges and morsels of delicious imagery. If sex could be likened to such a buffet, however, Beckett's always been a woman to go through the appetizers of foreplay with a small plate. It's delicious. It's fun. But tease her too many times and she's swapping for a platter and marching off to get herself some meat. _You're such a hopeless romantic, Katie._ Not even. She's a woman. With needs. And it's been a while. _Mmph..._

"Talk to me," Beckett voices on the tail of a huffed exhale. "About...stuff."

"Ah. My favorite topic of conversation," her companion replies with mild sarcasm. "Stuff."

"Oh man, I didn't even ask. I'm so sorry. I assumed by the silence... Would you, uh, rather tell me the bad part now?"

"No, no. Your instincts have it right. I don't want to spoil our evening by getting into that now. You wanted the warning and it's been given. I feel... I feel really good tonight despite all of that. Actually, I think my brain is still in partial meltdown over the fact that we're here. Together. I'd rather ride that high a while. Or, wait. Is that—do you mind?"

She smiles and shakes her head. "We can leave Saturday open for the rest of it."

"You want to make a date to be depressed by my decades old baggage?"

It sounds weird to her too when it's put like that. "I like being organized," Beckett defends.

Castle chuckles briefly. "It's a date then. Tomorrow evening."

"Good. I've seen what you do with too much idleness on the open road though." An unapologetic smile appears even as his gaze travels to her right hand upon the wheel. "So let's apply that creativity of yours to entertaining me during this last leg of the drive, shall we? Verbal means only, Castle."

She's peripherally aware of him studying her. "Okay," he begins, drawing the word out in consideration. "Well, we still have—what, half an hour? How about I tell you knock-knock jokes for fives minutes, read you a few selections from the car owner's handbook for fifteen minutes, and we can spend the last ten minutes playing I-Spy?"

"First of all, I am _not_ that anal about being organized, wiseass. Second of all, I said 'entertain'."

"Hrm. I could list some of your more favorable traits in alphabetical order. How about that?"

Beckett stirs with quiet humor. "See? And you made it sound _so_ hard to think of something fun."

"Ass," he begins, eyes widening theatrically as he nods in self-agreement. "Breasts." More, and more vigorous nodding. "Calves. Don't mistake my lack of further nodding to indicate any less approval. I just made myself a little dizzy is all."

She snorts quietly. "I wasn't serious about this game to begin with, but I definitely don't like where it's going. Would it kill you to pick something you can't put your paws all over?" _Or your lips. Or tongue. Or—_

"Duodenum."

Beckett's laugh spirals up and out unrestrained, her face tilting upwards. _Okay, you got me._ It's nice to be gotten. She isn't sure if using humor right now is them running away from their problems or merely balancing the scales. All that's certain is how good it feels to see him smiling freely. She's still trying to tame her humor as she begins speaking, "G-g-gross! You know damn well I meant something non-physical. Do you even know what the duodenum is?"

"Of course. And in keeping with your stipulation I listed something I have neither the ability nor desire to fondle. Not even yours, although I'm sure it's quite lovely."

"Bullshit. You couldn't think of another body part for the letter 'D'." She shoots over a self-satisfied smirk and tilts her head indicatively at him. "I could come up with one." _Or go down on one. Just sayin'._

Now her companion is the one shifting where he sits, as if privy to the dialogue of combating urges within her mind. "Hush," he growls back at her, "it's not your turn. And for your information: diaphragm, dermis, derrière."

An imperious eyebrow creeps up over a hazel orb. "I don't 'hush' for anyone, buster. And you already said ass."

"Oh, Beckett," he returns, and sighs with dramatic fondness, "it's worth mentioning at least twice."

The detective lofts a hand in the air in forestallment. "Okay, jeez. On second thought, let's both hush."

"Eyes," he issues, so stealthily she momentarily questions having heard it. Before she can admonish him for continuing the novelist eases in closer from his seat. _Uh oh._ He plants an elbow on the center console less than a foot away and perches that proud chin in his palm. The smile has retreated again, but for an entirely different reason. "Fingers," he adds and reaches with his right hand to slide his digits over hers upon the steering wheel.

"Castle," Kate warns past a tightness in her chest. She's trying hard to take this nice and slow. For his benefit, because it's clear this getaway is important to him for reasons beyond the obvious advance it means for both of them. The last thing she wants is to somehow misstep and make light of what he needs to share with her. "I said verbally only."

It is directly to that tightness at her core he goes upon lowering his hand from hers. Reaching for her chest is very bold even by his usual standards. It makes the woman jerk her hips backwards in the seat in surprise even though the rest of her absolutely seethes with invitation: _Touch them. I double-fucking-dare you._ He hovers neatly between her curves though. Two fingertips come to rest at the hollow of her throat. A soft tick greets the scrape of his nails over each button of her white dress shirt along the way down to the center of her chest. He pauses there.

"Gladiolus," Castle rumbles. "Center segment of the sternum."

"Verbally only," Beckett warns again, for what she determines to be the last time.

"As in oral?" Oh the indecency of that smile. "I could be persuaded."

Wow. Just...wow. _Writer, you have no idea the kind of fire you're playing with._ Muscles taut, Kate pulls in a breath. Her eyes snap shut against the feel of his wrist becoming an obstruction to the lift of her right breast. She forces them open and whips her focus from the road to him. She isn't even aware if he's smiling. There is only that gaze boring into her, and goodness how those pupils have swelled, yawning to their utmost with a forceful lure not unlike gravity. "Are you done?"

"Do you want me to be?"

"I...need you to be if you want to arrive in one goddamn piece."

He reluctantly eases away to sitting properly. It feels like an unseen umbilicus links them and is tugging something out of her along with every inch that expands between them. A casual flip of his fingers precedes his grumbled, "There's just no end to what we can't do in a moving car, is there? Luxury indeed. I'm considering demanding a refund."


	4. Disembarking

"Do you need anything?" Castle asks. _A fresh pair of panties probably wouldn't hurt_. The swift glare she fires at him earns a strained attempt not to smile in reply along with the man's palms lofted in self-defense. "I'm being serious. This plaza is the last chance to do any shopping before we arrive. So if you need any last minute items..."

"Hmm." Beckett slows and shifts lanes when the way is clear. "I don't think so. We can stop and duck inside a moment though, see if inspiration strikes. There must be something you need, come to think of it. You didn't bring anything."

"I keep clothes at the house." He smooths the thighs of his slacks. "Sorry to quaff any hopes of rampant nudity."

"I'm hiding my disappointment," she mutters, though in her mind... "Uh, what about groceries?"

"It's taken care of." She eyes him askance and he shrugs. "One of my friends here runs a housekeeping service. Genie Autry. Genevieve, rather, but call her that at your own risk." The width of his eyes suggests having made the attempt at least once before. "It's no shortcut to her good side, trust me. Genie's looked after the place ever since I bought it. If I give her enough notice of when I'm visiting, and she has time, she restocks the refrigerator for me too."

"That's nice."

"She's amazing, yeah. That's not part of her usual service."

Beckett gives a luxuriating eye roll. " _Aso._ She's got a soft spot for you, huh?" That sounded more subtle in her head.

"She better," the other grumbles. "We've known each other since we were toddlers. Her husband John and I have been friends for a long time too. I was a groomsman at their wedding, and they asked me to be their daughter's godfather." There is obvious pride tethered to those bits of history, a quality of it he usually only displays when discussing his own daughter. Beckett smiles and mentally crosses the housekeeper off a list of potential concerns. "You'll be meeting him tomorrow at some point. John, I mean. He's a Sergeant in charge of the East Hampton Town police precinct in Montauk."

"Oh? Are you planning some mischief that might get us in trouble with the man?" She bats her sable eyelashes at him and flashes the breadth of a winning smile at his blank-faced look of surprise.

Castle's lips slowly spread into a broad curve. "My, but that sounds like fun." It diminishes some as the point he was aiming at comes back to target. "Uh, but no, sadly that's not what I meant." He moistens his lips in a blip of prevarication as they pull into a parking space outside of a drug store. "He's one of the people who knows the details of, ah, what I'm going to be telling you. His father, Frank, was a detective with the EHTPD back then. It was his case."

The last has her sitting upright in her seat. "Whoa, wait. Your history here involves a case?"

"Oh yes." He turns while stripping off his seatbelt and cants his head indicatively. "Let's shop."

"Let's talk," she rebuts flatly. "No, don't start squirming. I'm not asking you to dive all in, but you can't throw that out there and not expect me to ask. What kind of case are we talking about?" _Please don't say—_

"Murder," her companion replies evenly. He leans slightly towards her in an invasion of space that might have been welcomed if that expression weren't so absent of anything familiar. There's a challenge in his body language. It isn't even close to something playful. "Did you really need to ask?"

"H-hoped for a different answer," she replies quietly, unsettled. By Castle. That simply doesn't happen.

The author tilts his head somewhat and a faint smile slowly emerges. It reaches his eyes. "That's sweet of you to say," he remarks at length. "I wish I had another one to give. But come on, that's for later." He rises from the car after saying so. A cool breath of spring flows into the void before he closes the door behind him.

It takes Beckett a few minutes to recover her senses. She snags her purse from behind the seat and slips out with a press of the key fob to lock up behind them. The mid-fifties temperature doesn't make for an especially cold night, but an inner chill coupled with casual buttoning of her shirt and rolled up sleeves invites a quiver of protest. The brightness of the store narrows those hazel orbs after the pair enter. It's been a long, dark ride thus far. _And poised to grow darker still._ She tries not to focus on that, but passes the clerk on duty without fully registering the young man's greeting. More on autopilot, the detective trails after her shadow down one of the aisles, their usual roles of follow-the-leader turned in an about-face.

She almost collides into his back when he stops. Castle turns and blinks at their proximity. "Hi."

Beckett takes a step back, shakes her head. "Sorry."

Castle indicates the shelf at her left with a little tip of his chin. "You're all set here?" He's pointing out the array of women's shaving foam. It takes a moment for her to fully grasp the implications, and another still to let go of an ache at her core elicited by him trying to keep this trip light and fun for her. Kate plays along with a squint that mutely demands better behavior. His smile has returned though, and it is not dissuaded in the least. "Is that a yes?"

"It's an indication that someone is skating on some mighty thin ice."

"Okay, okay. It doesn't hurt to ask."

"It could."

"What a surly woman." He turns to keep walking. "Surly, but apparently smooth-shaven. Good. To. know." He stops again with nothing more than a sideways glance at a pegboard rack full of condoms.

 _Wow._ Damn it, her cheeks heat up a little. "Someone's feeling optimistic," she observes with convincing aplomb.

"I always try to be a glass half full kind of guy. How about you? Feeling optimistic?"

 _Mmm, you betcha_. It would take a mental health-care professional armed with a comprehensive power-point presentation to make sense of the sheer rapidity with which they've gone from very rarely even touching one another to making jokes steeped in the foreshadowing of their impending sex life. Kate certainly can't explain it, except to say that it's been coming for a long, long time. Now that their path to one another is clear... "Hmm," she replies with her own turn at teasing. "I feel...like a good scout should be prepared for even the remotest of eventualities. Isn't that the motto?"

Castle keeps walking down the aisle, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I wouldn't know. I was never a scout." Maybe not, but she can think of plenty he _is_ , including one cocky sonofabitch.

Kate eyes the condom packages askance and yanks free a box of small sized, glow-in-the-dark ones. She palms them and tucks her left hand at her side to conceal their presence. _She who laughs last..._ The joke is on him either way. She's been using contraceptives to manage the severity of her periods since her late teens. With a few longer strides she catches up near the end of the row. It terminates near the pharmacy desk where a few people are sitting. Castle turns left, which takes them to several standing coolers at the back of the store.

She smiles when he pauses before them. "Beer and frozen pizza, huh? That's almost embarrassingly up my alley. Just so long as we're not eating and drinking out of dinnerware that's more than fifty times the monetary value of our meal. I eschew the extremes of hypocrisy wherever and whenever I can."

Castle laughs aloud, a rich texture of sound even while being modulated. "You eschew, hrm?"

"I do, I do. You too?"

Her partner's shoulders quiver silently even as he shakes his head and glances at the watch face on his wrist. "Genie said she was going to leave dinner in the oven for us when she left around ten. It's only five after right now, so we should be good there. It's grilled shrimp scampi and lobster stew."

"She cooks for you too? You really are spoiled."

"I wish. No, she cooked for you, which happily works to my benefit."

"For me?" She grinned. "I'm digging this gal already."

"I told you she's amazing."

"Seriously, that's really nice. We should do something to say thank you while we're here."

"Maybe we can invite them over for lunch on Sunday."

"Yes! I can cook."

"Mm, I remember. I'll call them tomorrow and see if they're available. They'll probably bring their kids too if so. They have a four year old girl, Ella, and a boy, Max, who'll be turning three in a month. They're the coolest little people."

"Aw." He turns to look at her in surprise, and Beckett swats his shoulder. "Shush, you. I like kids. Especially when they're just visiting," she stipulates discreetly close to his ear, and her companion chuckles deeply. "What's the hold up here then? What do you need?"

"You're the hold up. We're looking at the ice cream, not pizza or beer. Pick a flavor already." He reaches in after chiding her and pulls out a pint of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. _Yum._ She points out another can't-miss: chocolate chip cookie dough. "Classic," he affirms with a nod. The author also grabs a squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup and a can of whipped cream.

"I'll partake," she reports dubiously, "but hear me, Castle: I will not be wearing either of those."

"Oh, you want some too? I can grab more."

Beckett shoos her free hand at his contrived display of concern and follows him to the front check-out. He unloads their yummies and they watch the cashier ring everything up. "Oops, almost forgot." She drops the condoms onto the counter. "Those too, please." The young man assisting them does what anyone would under the circumstances when he performs an automatic glance to their suspiciously slippery desserts and then back to the rubbers. When he notes the size of them the kid looks at Castle with a smug little smirk in place upon his freckled face.

But the author, rarely caught unarmed in a battles of wits with her, simply shrugs his broad shoulders a touch. "I'm all about giving in moderation." It is kinda funny. The kid laughs. Beckett smiles, but the fact that her companion doesn't reveal a compulsion to correct the assumption of size on the table, or counter as it were, is more interesting than amusing. It takes self-control to resist that urge with only a moment available between thought and action. It takes confidence to actually play along. The former is a quality worthy of note. The latter is just plain sexy.

"Not bad," Castle concedes as they exit, grinning aside at her.

She smirks and bumps his hip with hers.

On the road again, they pass through the last traffic light standing between them and their destination. Gradually, the cars ahead peel off onto varying side streets. Within the space of a few miles they're alone again in the darkness and the lights of The End are disappearing behind them. All except for a principle one that is; the beam of Montauk Point Light is visible ahead cutting a revolving swath through the night.

"We're almost there. In about a mile the road will bend left. You can see the house from there on the right. After the way straightens out again there'll be a paved lane within a hundred yards or so."

It soon appears as described. The highway they've been following is cut into a decently-sized hill. A fair way down its slope stands the massive beach house. It's beautiful. A couple inside lights are visible through what she guesses are expansive bay windows. The feeble glow of an exterior lamp shines at the middle as well as at either end. Beyond it all, radiance from the waxing gibbous moon lies upon the mighty Atlantic in sprawling splendor, but nearer to shore that glimmering influence wanes from the imposed angle until all detail is obscured. With the landscape likewise nighttime black, the house calls to mind a massive ship that has been moored in a cape of brooding shadow. It is beautiful, but hauntingly so.

"Jesus, Castle..." Beckett murmurs, and turns onto a wide, private road in good repair. The slope proves less extreme than it appears. The grounds encompass at least five acres, maybe six. The wooded west, which they're approaching from, seems to be the lesser. She already knows from a picture Castle showed her on his cell that the east goes all the way down to the sands of a private beach. Largely open lawn unfolds to the south. A few isolated stands of trees are visible here and there. The northern sprawl hosts an L-shaped leg of the home, a two-story, four-car garage with the same wood-shingled exterior as the rest of the place. "Should I pull in there," she asks uncertainly, "or out front?"

"Out front is fine. I'll put this in the garage later."

She circles the wide open roundness of the driveway and comes to a stop. It feels good to get out and stretch her limbs while knowing the relief isn't temporary like before. The wind is offshore, ferrying scents of the surrounding forest. Kate circles around to the front of the Bentley more by dead reckoning, her gaze fixed to the imposing edifice of the structure before them. Castle appears at her right peripheral.

"Is it too much?" he worries aloud.

"Huh? No, it's gorgeous," Kate breathes. Her right hand lifts to rest upon his forearm while they linger. With a tilt of her head she remarks, "The symmetry of its profile is interesting."

"Is it? How so?"

Beckett considers a moment silently, combs a few wind-blown strands of hair from her cheek. "We all know how you thrive amidst chaos. This design is redolent of order, stability even. I guess that tracks though, huh? If my math is right you bought this a year before Alexis was born, before you married Meredith. By appearances alone," she looks to him again, "one might guess you had intended to settle down before either of them actually came into the picture."

Her companion's stern exterior gives nothing away. "Not a bad piece of profiling, detective."

She clears her throat and lowers her hand to her side, wondering if saying anything was a mistake. "Two stories?" she asks, trying a different course of conversation.

"Technically three. It has a finished lower level I had turned into a library a few years ago. Don't let any of the local realtors hear you call it a basement. They'll flip out." The man's smirk makes a reappearance along with a lightly disparaging flip of those blue eyes towards the starry sky. "Anyway, there are five bedrooms including the master suite on the first floor. The rest are on the second. Each has an ensuite bath, so you won't have to explore if you wake in the night."

"Phew. What's the square footage on something like this?"

"A little over ten thousand."

"Holy shit. And what did it...ah, no. Bah. Sorry."

"What, the price? It's okay to ask. We've exchanged far more personal details, don't you think?" She smiles back at him uncertainly. "It was just under twenty-five."

" _Million_?" Beckett squawks, hazel orbs wide. "Of course million," she answers immediately afterward, and strokes a hand over her hair with a huff of an exhale. "Fuck me."

Castle glances at her in straight-faced surprise with a slight lift at the peak of his eyebrows. "Is that an order?"

Silent mirth quivers through her before the woman slaps a hand against his left side. It lingers upon him again while they continue taking the place in. "You must be used to this kind of gawking by now. Just gimme one more minute."

"Take your time. It's nice to see it through fresh eyes." Castle turns and moves to the trunk of the car. "Pop this for me?" Beckett does so using the key fob, and joins him back there while frowning privately at his reply. She only brought two bags. One is a carry-on sized silver colored suitcase and the other a little red pouch for her make-up and such. She snags them both and he closes the trunk after. "It's never been easy finding time to get away," he explains. "I don't think Meredith and I made it out here together more than three or four times, and with Gina it was only somewhat more frequent. It's been remodeled...I don't know. At least twice since either has visited."

Beckett shakes her head. "I'm well aware of your reputation beyond the realm of matrimony, Castle. I know there have been other women. It's not something you need to hide from me on behalf of a misguided attempt at conciliation." It's not something he needs to mention in detail either though. She makes the point and hopes he drops it.

"Why would I?" he returns, frowning with what seems like genuine confusion. "Listen, uh, I'm not exactly sure what you're getting at, but I had my reasons for constructing the reputation I carry. I can't claim no one's feelings were hurt throughout that process, or that I'm proud of what we built, but I _can_ say that I've seldom acted in a fashion that left me feeling truly ashamed of myself. As for this place...it's always been a refuge from all of that, a getaway in more than one sense of the term. It's been for family, as you've already surmised." He pauses to scratch pensively at his jawline. "If bringing you here renders that fact suspect... I would suggest you're underestimating how much I appreciate what we've accomplished together over this past year, and what you've come to mean to me personally." His features dim noticeably. "Or perhaps I've overestimated what that has meant to you in turn."

"No," Kate inserts immediately. "That's—no, damn it."

"It's no strike against you," he clarifies with matching haste. "It's my assumption, not a criticism."

Beckett takes a breath and shifts restlessly where they stand. "I think I've made it pretty clear what this means to me."

"I thought so too," he replies, still frowning somewhat. She doesn't miss the lean on past tense.

"Look, this is just... It's my misunderstanding." Beckett set her suitcase down to reach for his hand and, bless him, her companion doesn't shy away. "You had _me_ going with that facade of yours too, okay? Sometimes I look at you and I see the guy on page six. Other times I don't. It's difficult to trust which one is real. We've known each other for, what—a year? A great year," she assures quickly, "but as busy as we've been throughout all of that time...how much do we really know about one another? You see where I'm coming from here, don't you? It's not doubt that makes it so easy to picture girls gone wild around your pool or along the beach. Wow. It's really not. It's plain ol' ignorance." She blinks at him.

"I understand. Of course I do. That's why we're here: for answers."

Kate sighs long and quietly in relief. "That's good."

He eases back a pace from her with his head tilted some, and she watches his expression fade away. "Is it?" She doesn't know precisely what he means, or what to say to that. When the lack of reply drags out far enough he shakes his head and unearths a small smile. "I suppose we'll see. Come on, let's go inside."

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for the delay, folks. I can't even tell you how many times I've written and scrapped this chapter. Why? I dunno. Madness in one form or another seems likely. I'm still not entirely satisfied, but for now it must suffice in touching on the issues I've demanded of it.**

 **Also... If you're looking for something special to fill the gaps of waiting for this or other stories you're reading, I highly recommend trying out One Quarter, by Perspex13 if you haven't already. It's one I discovered last night. It's not a completed story either, yet, but each chapter is nicely long and satisfying in its own right.**


	5. Temptation

They opt to forgo a tour in favor of dinner. It's the opposite of sight-seeing with most of the lights off beyond the entryway. Neither of them makes a move to change that. Castle takes her hand and leads the way straight through the two-story foyer, bypassing mirrored sets of stairs leading up. They slip through the deep shadows of a wide east hallway and into a combined kitchen and dining room. Her entire apartment could probably fit inside the joined area. A small lamp over the stove casts a limited pool of yellowed light. A darkened living room is separated to their right by a partial interior wall with a large arched opening. By the movement of the air she doesn't need to see it to know its similarly wide open.

Rick turns on the appliance below the sole source of light and sets the temperature to bring the shrimp inside back to sizzling. The lobster stew is on low heat in a slow-cooker on the counter. When he takes the cover off to check it, the resulting spill of its aroma makes her stomach growl.

"Whoa. Down girl."

"Dinner before dessert," Beckett returns with a playful nudge of her shoulder. _Whoops. Out loud that time, Katie._

Castle laughs briefly even while surprise etches itself into his rugged features. "Well then. That's something to look forward to, hrm?" She mantles, plants her face into her palm. "Wait here. I'll grab us a bottle to go with this. Sauvignon blanc, or pinot noir?"

"Surprise me." _Because there hasn't already been enough of that happening for one day._

Castle exits into the gloomy hall. A door opens somewhere beyond and the thump of his weight on a set of stairs is barely audible. While he's doing that, Beckett shakes off her fumble and explores the immediate area. She turns up a pair of elegant, round-bodied wineglasses with stems as slim as those of a rose. She also claims a wooden stirring spoon. Her host reappears even as she's sampling the stew. The creamy broth is light, but rich. Garlic, onion, a note of paprika, black pepper. It's nothing unfamiliar, but the portions used suit her palate sublimely. The sample hits her stomach like a balm on a wound, but only makes it growl more determinedly.

"That was probably the house settling."

Castle shakes his head. "No, _that_ was what you get for turning your nose up at Doritos."

 _Can't argue, must consume_. While doing so, she watches him sink a cork screw and bring it out of the bottle's neck with a pop. The white is set aside to breathe. He reaches for the spoon. She dodges neatly and lofts it with the rounded bottom displayed threateningly. He regards it a moment, unimpressed, and jabs at her ribs with a poking finger. The unexpected contact makes her bend at the waist around a little grunt of protest. He snatches away the utensil with a self-satisfied smirk.

 _New weapons in our arsenals_ , Kate reminds herself as she glowers at his taste-testing. She steps away to let him putter with the task of pulling down plates and bowls. The size of the room hits her all over again while the tinkling of silverware chimes upon the air. Without considering beforehand she does a neat little turn with her arms out.

When she stops she finds Castle watching. Eyebrow perched, arms crossed, he is the very picture of perplexity. "Did you just twirl?"

 _Nabbed._ Beckett sets her hands upon either hip and levels him with the look usually reserved for his most outlandish theories. "Did I what?"

There is an immediate backward tick of his head upon his neck along with a bit of rapid blinking, as if she'd kicked sand in his face. "Um. No," he mumbles more to himself, and scratches lightly along the shell of his right ear with a short clip of exhaled mirth, "No. My mistake." Yet he meets her no-nonsense stare inquisitively with a tilt of his head. "It sure looked like—"

"Like this?" Beckett spins again, twice. There is so much open space she could fall over flat and not even hit the edge of a worry about knocking her head on something. She retains her footing, and when she stops again Castle's grinning widely at her girlishness. He provides a short and snappy golf clap. "I'm a city girl," she reminds him while approaching, "we don't get to flap often or far."

"Could've fooled me. You're a natural on your toes."

A throaty purr of a laugh escapes her. "If you like that, you should see me on my..." Kate let's it trail some, opens her mouth and widens her eyes in a fleet mockery of his expression. "Hands," she concludes with a forward bend to propel herself into a handstand. It's the first time she's done one in years. There's a silly exhilaration to the forgotten act. Chagrin too when her shirt dips warningly, slides like a limp flag down her front, and plops over her face. _Smooth move, Ace._ "While you're at it," the inverted woman continues ruefully, "why not check out my bra?"

The rumbled, amused reply is immediate. "Don't mind if I do."

Beckett gives him a moment, no more. "Castle." She startles at his hands spanning out over her sides. "Hmm. Now, I know you wouldn't take advan—" The words break off sharply at the feel of his breath against her abdomen. That's all the warning she gets before he traces lazily around the dimple of her navel with the tip of his tongue. _You did not just..._ Amidst the withdrawal his nose brushes at the waistline of her slacks and a swish of his hair tickles at her.

It takes a moment to realize he's finished. And what planet she's on. It's not like her imagination hasn't previously put that dexterous pink muscle of his to work at a task beyond filling her ears with chatter. But she'd pictured its first visit happening between both their mouths in a heady kiss. Or, admittedly less likely for a first, of pulling him down by his ears into the crux of her thighs and turning it loose on her precious peach with all the Dionysian fervor of a ritual alcoholic lapping at the grape. Both wrong. _How deliciously unexpected_.

"You're clear behind you," Rick offers since she can't be certain for herself, which is also a helpful reminder that she is still, in fact, upside down and that her arms are starting to quiver from the strain.

With his assurance to guide her Beckett lowers to the beautiful hardwood floor. She straightens her top while also correcting her posture. Embarrassment and arousal tug-o-war for control of her features. "Ta-da," she deadpans, but her smile blossoms again as Castle chuckles and finishes the advance she began, stepping into her with a lift of his arms around her middle. Her hands perch upon his forearms.

They fit together as natural as puzzle pieces and without a tick of hesitation or awkward placement. _What does that mean?_ Unknown. The purely physical implications couldn't be clearer: they're an exceptional match. She's known that ever since they danced. Kate watches his attention travel from her eyes to her nose, to her lips where they linger. The depths of his breathing matches hers. He wets his own satiny twins and something in her middle tightens in response. _Here we go._

"Everything within me is telling me to kiss you right now." He must know the words are unnecessary, which means he said it to test them aloud upon the air. She gets it without having to be told; he's checking to see if the impulse within either or both of them wilts under the audible reality of a proposed act that's been long forbidden. Kate starts to reply, but his eyebrows dip sharply into a shallow 'v' and stall her intent. "I'm not asking for your permission." _Mmph._ The stern tone with which the words emerge strums those already taut cords within her.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

Castle's eyes widen just slightly, which prompts a flashing smile from her. That must have been what he was waiting for, because that's when his hands slide up her back, shoulders, and lift to cradle her face. His mouth comes for her. It's neither gentle nor aggressive, but a spellbinding blend that sets her hands to sliding up his arms and curling into the fabric of the sleeves. They break apart from one another unexpectedly after several seconds and he adjusts the angle of her face to brush his lower lip over the swells of both of hers. There's something shockingly intimate about that simple, whispering stroke. Kate drinks it into her heart as much as her pleasure center, but wastes no time in merging them again and blossoming open to trace the seam of his mouth her tongue. His find hers and they caress for the first time. A flawlessly expressive moan of welcome escapes her. It's like sounding the trumpet for a cavalry charge. Her hands move to his sternum and climb up onto his chest even while one of his skates back against her neck and right ear to delve deeply into her hair. It curls within its new home amidst tinkling, silvered notes of brutality.

They detach for ragged breaths with their foreheads linked and their mouths close. A glimmering cord of saliva binds them. Kate breaks it with a flick of her tongue that swishes against his lip, light as a painter's brush. A shift of his face brings his eyes to life with both reflected light and the seeming of a bellicose gleam. It's echoed by a clench of his jaw in passion easy to mistake for a parsimonious anger. Then he's back at her, and he brings it harder this time.

 _Oh god, yes._ No. She needs to warn him. Stop him. Doesn't she? Beforehand she'd had what seemed like a really good reason to take this slow with him. _I need to know his hidden darkness before I recklessly claim this light._ Shit. Yes. That's it exactly, but what a monstrous time to recall good intentions.

The only thing that comes to mind to say to him at that moment is: _You better quit it, buster, or I'm gonna fuck your brains out._ It's hardly the most dissuasive of threats. The detective pushes at him instead, putting the words into the turn of her face to one side and the thrust of her hands against the steely shelves of his chest. The gasped wash of his breath against her neck makes her wince sharply in a sudden torrent of reconsideration.

Rick answers her hesitance with the opening of his hand in her hair and a grazing scrape of his nails against her scalp that threatens to take her legs out from under her. She leans in hard, off-balance, and feels his mouth at her earlobe, a sweet purse and stroke of his lips, and then the blunted edges of his teeth which latch on for a little tug she feels echo in her guts. So clear, the message: _Can Kate come out and play?_ The overall assault makes her shoulders quiver the way they had earlier in the cold. Her clutch on his sleeves is snarled so tight she hears the fabric give under a breach of her nails.

"Stop," Beckett manages to tear out of her throat.

Castle falls as still as moonlight on the becalmed surface of a pool of water. Part of her hates him for that, the doing and the immediacy with which it occurs. His hands withdraw, but only briefly. They stroke her hair back in mirrored gestures of pure affection. His thumbs brush her cheekbones. He tests the grip on her senses with a series of lighter, gentler kisses at her right eyebrow, the bridge of her nose, and then the tip. He purses them at the right corner of her mouth. It's like the last frenetic gusts of wind in the wake of a violent storm, scattering the loose debris of her composure and whistling through the bared architecture of her ardent wish to make their first time be the right time—if there is such a thing.

"I want to," she rasps as her breathing struggles to calm.

"I felt the truth of that." Similarly winded, he moistens his lips as if gathering the taste of her and swallows thickly. "It's okay."

He thinks _she's_ the one who needs time. But this is one of those occasions in which years of experience as a cop trumps his powerful currents of empathy and imagination. For over ten years she's watched victims or relatives struggle to come to terms with their ordeals. Whatever Castle's been through has the texture of a wound that hasn't closed. He's learned to live around it, but by concealment rather than acceptance. At least that's what she's gathered thus far. So, yes, let her see it first. Indulgence has already waited plenty. It'll keep a day or so more.

They end up eating right there at the stove, bare-foot, in clothes wrinkled from a day of work and travel. There's no unease between them; only a powerful new awareness of one another that completely displaces the concept of comfort zones. She leans with her lower back resting against the stove, and he stands with his legs in a spread that neatly brackets hers. The soft light glints at her from reflections in his eyes and lies in a subdued shine upon his hair.

Neither of them speaks a single word throughout the meal.

They work the stew down halfway, passing a spoon back and forth with lazy, lingering intertwines of their fingers. His forearms whisper against Kate's every time he reaches past her to tug a shrimp from the foil-lined baking pan behind her. She stood purposefully in the way and he didn't employ a step to either side to make it easier. As the decadently flavorful creaminess of the stew envelopes her taste buds, or the shrimp bearing scorches from the grill gives in with juicy meatiness between her teeth, the woman's eyes revel in the play of shadow and light upon him, the way it contours his face as he chews and the living motion of it at his throat with each swallow; a subtle vein thick with life lifts to the surface of his neck each time. He watches her with equal attention and seeming fascination. Sometimes their eyes meet and get caught in the connection, and her heart starts hammering, her breath begins to shorten or even halt in anticipation, but then one of them or the other reaches for their respective wineglass.

She's had complete sexual encounters that haven't left her turned on the way their standing dinner does.

Beckett fills up first and takes to simply cradling her glass in one hand against her chest. She still doesn't try to step away and her fellow diner never backs off enough to imply an invitation to. It's that much more erotic to be there knowing it is precisely where he wants her to be. It isn't often his physical presence reveals a preference, let alone demands one by hemming her in like this. She ends up two glasses of wine ahead of him from the need to busy her mouth with something.

Naturally, he provides his own solution to that at one point. He's very neat about sating himself, deliberate and precise. So, when a dribble of melted butter spills over his bottom lip and down his chin with a hum of protest, Kate's smile reveals itself amidst knowing, narrowed eyes. _You're fooling no one._ Rarely one to refuse a dare from him, however, she leans in slowly with her free hand at his chest for balance and slides her tongue from the proud jut of his chin up to the base of his mouth. The last flourish leaves the crest of his lower lip gleaming.

No wounded or starving animal, no wounded _and_ starving animal, could broadcast greater intent to have at her than he does at that moment. _You're loving this_ , she realizes with a private, somewhat exasperated huff. Did she unwittingly teach him a penchant for delayed gratification by keeping him at bay for so long, or was it always there?

Twenty minutes later, with both of them settled into a pair of Adirondack chairs on the rear deck, she can't get the memory of the coarse tickle of his five o clock shadow or the warm wet slide of his tongue against hers out of her goddamn head. Kate's never put herself into a position that demanded so much forbearance. And yet... She's never had a better time teasing around the blissfully rough edges of sex.

A glance to the side reveals Castle angled comfortably in his seat with his head reclining and both legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankle. One arm rests peaceably across his middle. The other hovers aloft from a planted elbow on the arm of the chair with his fingers spread out over the delicate rim of an almost empty wineglass. More layers of shadow than a visible man, she can see enough to determine his focus upon the murmur of the distant shore beyond the verdant slope of the eastern expanse of the property. He turns to her in time and remains there. Despite the length, activity, and emotional toll of their day, she senses a calm alertness about the other.

The woman lifts her glass for a final tilt that drains what little remains. The drink is less affecting than her own weariness, but they're swiftly becoming a fearsome combination. "You better show me to a room," she murmurs reluctantly, some minutes later, "before I pass out right here."

"Long day," comes the thrumming agreement from the dimness. He rises afterward with a steadying step forward into the pour of moonlight. Kate slides the tip of her tongue across the roof of her mouth as his body unfurls and tightens with a stretching of his limbs. His toes curl and pop softly against the planks beneath them. She glimpses the small of his back for a moment and scribbles an imaginary message there: _Please place interlocked ankles here._

Beckett doesn't say it—her laziness does: "Lemme just...think about this whole moving thing for a moment, hmm?"

He crouches at her left side, half his face apparent with the flash of a smile. "I could think of worse ways to spend my time than watching you dither in the moonlight." She witnesses, feeling almost like a third-party observer, as his palm covers the back of her left hand and strokes along her arm to the crinkle of her bunched up sleeve.

"Do that again," she hears herself murmur. He does and her eyes close without permission. They snap open sharply when his touch alights against her left cheek. His thumb grazes with a gentleness that something far more precious or delicate might require.

"You're so beautiful, Kate," he says in a hush, but sounds almost upset, the tone strained and low.

"You too," she says, and means it, but immediately scrunches her lips at the lameness of its emergence. He chuckles some at her expression, sounding closer to normal, and exhales a deep breath while standing. "I mean," she emphasizes, "that I'd love for you to come upstairs with me. But I also know it's not right right now. Right right," she repeats and scowls. "Fuck you, brain. I wanna talk."

Again his pleasingly deep chord of humor strums to life. "Let me help you upstairs."

Beckett allows it, not needing but enjoying the welcome ballast of his arm and shoulder as they slip inside. "I'm sorry. Such a beautiful night. We should be ending it so much louder."

Castle pauses abruptly to regard her. She stares back, smiles helplessly. It takes willpower to resist the urge to spill out an inebriated giggle at his answering frown. "I know you already said you don't take this order," he rumbles at her, "but maybe you could do it just this once as a favor to me: shut up."

She laughs fully and happily most of the way up the stairs. Thank goodness he does too before the end. Her host knows better than to think it aimed at him rather than inspired by him. "Oh god, don't," she protests as her breathing normalizes. "That's too good. I gotta pee."

"I should've left you outside in the sand," he laments gruffly.

She trembles with mirth, strokes his broad back with the arm around him. "Terrible," she agrees. "I didn't even have that much to drink, did I? I'm better than this."

"Not too much," the other confirms. "Enough to push a hard day over the edge though."

"I'm sorry. God, I _really_ am. I'm way too horny to also be this tired." The words are hardly concluded before Rick trips over his own feet and they list sharply forward. The detective yelps in surprise and down they go onto the carpeted runner that spans the length of the hallway. "Ow," she complains mildly.

"Shit," Castle hisses and she feels his hands at her back, then lightly against her sides. "Are you okay?"

"This is not how I imagined my knees getting abraded this weekend." Beckett pushes her fingers into her hair and combs it back from her face as she rises onto her knees. He's staring at her with his eyes wide enough to discern even in the gloom. "I said that out loud again, didn't I? Fuck. I'm sorry. You feel so good. And it's not even...you know, bold, but it's incredibly distracting." Both of his helpers on her still immediately, but don't abandon her. "No, god, don't leave me now. I still gotta pee."

"That's good news for my floor," her shadow confirms upon the delayed recapturing of his voice, even managing a glimmer of amusement. "Apologize again though and I'll ditch you right here." The hands at her sides tighten, sliding up beneath her arms as he lifts her onto her feet. There may not be an abundance of meat of her bones, but she is not a small woman. The seeming ease with which he handles her refutes that notion. Rick studies her critically a moment before leaving her there under her own power to step away.

"Oh," she says, blinking in the dimness of the upstairs. Muted light coming in through the windows and still feebler swaths from each open bedroom doorway relieves the darkness some. "Oh, weird, that awkward little grand jeté actually helped. Which room am I using? And why is it so dark? Ack!" she flinches away from the sudden bloom of golden radiance from the room at her left.

"Let there be light," he decrees.

"Let there be warning next time. Sheesh."

"The bathroom is this way."

That gets her moving, though the sight of the queen-sized bed with baby blue sheets and a purple comforter already turned down in invitation is sorely tempting. Squinting, she spies the bathroom doorway and follows after with only minor listing. _Atta girl_. Her hands clamp onto the jamb at either side as she pauses a moment. "Wow. It's big."

Castle turns from rooting around in the drawers beneath the double sink. "Oh?" He's holding a pump-bottle of hand-soap, which is deposited onto the counter. "I put the things from your little red bag in these top two drawers." She's not sure now when he managed to sneak off and unpack her belongings.

"Thanks."

He nod and faces her after, expectant.

"You gonna stay and watch? I don't think I have it in me to argue, but that's a whole new level of personal."

"Get in here," he growls at her, "and then I can go out there."

"Oh. Yeah." Beckett huffs out of a breath of humor and abandons the door frame. She settles in to relieve herself after he's left. "Jeez. It smells good in here. Not cloyingly clean. Light and fresh clean. And it's big."

That familiar baritone is audible from the other side of the door. "You mentioned big, yes."

"Well, it is though. I love my place, but the bathroom is its biggest flaw. Biggest flaw? That's backwards...eh, screw it. The point is: I don't even call it a bathroom. It's not worthy of the designation. It's 'the shitter'."

Castle unfurls a short, deep peal of laughter. "Oh heavens," he issues on a sigh. "You're my new favorite drinking buddy."

Beckett considers the offer and nods to herself. "Thanks." She finishes up and washes her hands. The water pressure is surprising. She groans with further pleasure to it warm up so quickly. "Ah god. I love this place. It makes me wanna get back to work in a contrasting kinda way, you know? Try to earn something like this for myself. Well, not like _this_ , but something special anyway. Something nice."

"In a just world, you and any other public servants like you would be first in line for them."

Beckett watches as his words penetrate her buzz and settle in her expression in the mirror as a small smile. With a bend and a swipe Kate straightens to regard her sinfully damp undergarments with a sigh. She drops them into the room's hamper along with her pants. "Right now I'd settle for having thought to bring fresh panties and a shirt in with me."

"I'll grab you something."

"Nice. Wait. You're gonna go pawing through my unmentionables?"

"What's that, universe?" she hears as he wanders away from the door. "You wish to reward my patience tonight? I accept."

She's just finishing with getting cleaned up when the door cracks open. His large right hand intrudes and waggles a handful of garments like a sorely reluctant matador. She strips off her shirt and bra to add to the hamper.

"Here."

"I'm going," she rebukes. Then huffs a breath of a laugh, unaccountably amused. "I'm very nude."

"Thanks for that," Castle replies in a deceptively conversational tone.

Beckett laughs again quietly and accepts the offered clothes. Pink underwear and a red t-shirt. "Never qualified as a prude, but I'm definitely feeling the lack right now with you standing two feet away." She dons the former while bracing her butt against the door for support. The t-shirt isn't one of her longer ones for sleeping in. Drat. She didn't even pack any. It's too short to cover anything past her waistline. She tilts her head some. "Hello?"

"I'm still with you."

"Mmmhmm. That's, uh...tricky for me. I don't think it'd be a good idea to see you seeing me."

"Huh?"

"Like this. Right now."

"I'm not following."

"Rick, for such a smart man you're being awfully thick." The mental image her own words conjure elicits her forehead thunking lightly against the door. "Stop that," she berates herself in a whisper. A palm rises to lay upon the barrier between them. "I'll be fine from here," she says to him. "Maybe...not...if you're still there when I come out."

"Oh."

She nods against the pleasingly cool surface of the door.

"Oh," he says again, and groans low in his throat. "Damn you, lady. I'm going. Goodnight."

Beckett sighs, already aching from the lack of him. "Goodnight, babe."

"B-babe?"

"Yeah?"

"Uh, nothing." He hums with quiet mirth, sighs. "Goodnight."

* * *

 **A/N: Bah. Between this chapter and possibly the next there's evidently a bit more settling in to do before getting to the actual meat of the story. Not that I mind exactly, but I wasn't planning for these two to get so sidetracked. I might edit this chapter right back out of here later on, but for now...**


	6. Unveiled

Beckett reaches the house phone on the fourth ring and snatches it up, but is still in the distracting process of swatting ineffectively at the author trailing closely at her back with her other hand. Strong fingers curl at her sides, slowing her pace and sliding smoothly over her t-shirt. His thumbs push the fabric upwards against the small of her back, flirting with a view of her swimshorts-clad backside. She dances lithely out of reach again, but the warmth of his touch lingers behind as if he'd branded her flesh. "Get away, you heathen. I'm not showing it to you."

"But I guessed!"

She snorts inelegantly. "You guessed that it was the image of a USB docking port stamped above my ass." With a short skid on the hardwood floor she whips an about-face at the foot of a broad stone hearth to face him squarely.

"You never actually said I had to guess _correctly_ to earn a peek." He'd stopped when she did, but now eases a pace forward like a panther carefully stalking prey, blue eyes half closed with pleased anticipation beneath the inclined angle of his brow. "I'm a stickler for fine print, you know. Hazard of the profession."

Never in her life has she seen herself as anyone's quarry. Kate points to her right with a sharp snap of her fingers. "I'm gonna 'stickler' you with this fireplace poker if you don't go away. Finish making us lunch."

Castle backs off a pace, another, but glowers at her as he goes. "This conversation isn't over, Allie."

The detective shoos at him, her tongue licking across the edges of her teeth as she flaunts her victory. A twinge of realization has her calling after him. "And don't call me that!" It's slightly unnerving how easily he slipped that alias under her radar.

A tinny voice issues a long, drawn out, "Hello?"

Beckett glances down at the phone at her side, winces as she lifts it to her ear. "Lanie?"

The trace of feigned testiness is overshadowed by good humor. "Damn, girl. Yes. Hello."

"Sorry. I was hip-deep in a battle with a man-child."

A fleet chortle comes through the line. "So I heard. I'd ask how the trip is going, but if you're already talking about showing him your tattoo, that's answer enough, isn't it?"

"I'm _not_ showing him," Kate grouses, and ruefully pushes her fingers into her hair, combing the mass of it back into a messy perch atop her head. She kicks a bare foot out towards Rick, who's peeking back at her around the edge the refrigerator door. _As you were, brute._ "He's seen enough for one day."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, really. Uh. Don't get any ideas, Lanie. It's not like that."

The other gives a wordless, dubious, "Mmmhmm." The sound of city traffic comes through the line. "I'm feeding my plants," the medical examiner explains, "bear with me, honey. And don't even think of stopping there. What exactly did he see? And what was that 'Allie' business?"

Beckett sighs. The sound terminates in a huff. "We went down to the beach earlier."

"Ooh! Did you wear the bikini I picked out for you? Wait, no. He wouldn't still be guessing if you had."

The detective lets her hair fall with a smack of her palm against her forehead. "I don't know how you snuck that obscene scrap of a thing back into my bag, but I'm not wearing that muffin-splitter." She's peripherally aware of Rick looking up sharply at that, but quickly bending back to his task. "No, I'm wearing the one that _I_ packed." With a plain white t-shirt on over it presently, though the chill that prompted its addition has since passed.

"So, what, the black bikini and those little boyshorts? Still very cute. Okay, continue, please."

"Thanks. Well, uh, the top is a bit of an older one. It's one I bought before I had someone around who decided it was his raison d'être to fatten me up with an endless surplus of sweets and carbs."

"You're welcome," comes an unrepentant reply from the other room.

"Oh lordy," her besty drones unsympathetically. "Don't even start with me, you scrawny thing. Do you know how many women would kill to have their weight-gain ratio itself to their boobs the way yours does? Savor those genetics. Meanwhile, I'm doing more squats than a one-armed juggler." Kate grinned despite herself. "So, what happened?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing. I lost my top, that's all."

Lanie sounded like she was smiling. "You lost it, huh? Sure, honey."

"I did! The waves were fairly calm, but one big bastard rolled in while I wasn't looking. The top was a little tight, like I was saying, so the strings didn't have enough slack near the knot. Then bam!"

"And your writer was right there to see?"

"Of course!"

A hushed titter of amusement came through the phone. "What'd you do?"

Beckett scrunched her lips with mild regret at the recalled images. "I squealed like a little girl, threw my arms around myself, and dropped into the water like a goddamn anchor was tied around my ass." She heard Castle's deeper laugh from the kitchen. It sang counter-point to the melody of the M.E.'s matching reaction.

When she'd calmed, the woman managed a breathy, "What'd _he_ do?"

"What'd he _do_? Smug sonuvabitch smiled at me as cool as can be, as if he saw them everyday, and asked, 'Shall I fetch you the tanning lotion for those fair ladies?'" Castle shook his head at her attempted impersonation of his voice.

"Oh my god," the other issues, the words quivering. "That's good." Kate could manage only a disgusted grunt in reply. "Aw, don't pout. Since when are you shy anyhow?"

"Since when does the definition of being outgoing include dropping my top?"

"Uh-huh. I see what you're doing, twisting my words. That ain't gonna work. I've seen you flag us down a few too many late-night cab rides home from girls' nights."

"That was _one time_!" she fires back in hushed protest.

The nosy-parker beyond them asks, "What was one time?"

"Me telling you to mind your own beeswax in there, buster," Kate fires back at him. "Because if I have to make the point twice, I'm coming in there to do it the writer's way: showing instead of telling."

"Promises, promises."

"Point's still valid in either case," Lanie chimes in. "What's the 'Allie' part then? That's a weird choice for a pet-name."

"Lanie..."

"No. Come on. It can't be worse than flashing Castle. Or is it?"

"Don't sound so hopeful. It's all fruit of the poisoned tree," the other replies. "He wouldn't help me look for my top. Well, he did by the end actually, because he found it washing ashore. But at the time he wouldn't. Oh no, he was far too busy running back to the beach for his phone to take a picture. Not of my tits, mind you, I'll give him that much credit and _only_ that much. No, he was just tickled to death by watching me pawing around blindly. It's _not_ funny, Lanie, jeez. Anyway, uh, I was feeling around for it with my hands and trying not to, you know, put on a show at the same time. So, in the picture all you can see is the top half of my face peeking out of the water. 'You look like a pissed off alligator' he tells me. Between rounds of laughing of course, the bastard."

"That's no way to talk about the guy making your food."

She crinkles her nose, but ignores him and waits patiently for the other woman's loud unfurling of humor to fade. Again. "So, heh, Alligator, Allie. I gotcha. You poor thing. That's gonna stick with you forever."

"Tell me about it," Beckett grits. "Ugh. Better yet, don't. That's why I had you call me on this line though. I chased the fucker down, which wasn't easy while also being my own bra. But I did it, and I threw his phone into the water. Which turned out to be _my_ phone. Ugh. It's been a morning, Lanie. How're things there?"

"I'm home on a long lunch break. There ain't squat happening here worth dishing about. I'm living vicariously right now, so make mama proud and gimme s'more details. What's his place like?"

Beckett turns, looking over the expansive spaces about her. "Oh God, Lanie. It's all hardwood flooring, white walls and ceilings. Every border and cornice has a tasteful bit of flourish, nothing is overwrought. I think there are more windows than actual wall. By ten o clock the whole house was full of light. It's gorgeous."

"It sounds it."

"I dunno who designed it, but they probably could've thrown in one or two more rooms on all three floors. The count was intentionally limited in order to give what rooms are present more square footage. The bedroom I'm using upstairs is the size of my apartment's living room."

"And the bathroom is no mere shitter," Castle adds, and she chokes around a contained laugh.

The M.E. thankfully skirts around the topic of the sleeping arrangements. "So it's bachelor central, huh?"

"Not so much, no. I expected that too, but even with the neutral color theme and room sizes, it's cozy. There's lots of art, pictures, and furniture. Very people oriented spaces where you'd imagine seeing friends or family."

"Wow. That really does sound great. What kinda playboy did you run off with, girl?"

"Mm, it's definitely a question mark at this point." She weaves between a pair of chairs and follows the main walkway back through the living room to join Castle. He's standing at the island. A wheat sub roll is laid out on a pale green preparation mat, halved lengthwise. Also present are a modest range of condiments and a few baggies of sandwich meats. "He brought me here to show me something," she comments into the phone. "I don't know what yet. But it's something big." Rick doesn't even look up despite the topic of conversation.

Lanie gave a low, indecent laugh. "I bet it is."

"Not that, jeez. Not even close. But, uh, that's big too."

" _What?!_ "

"Lanie, ow." Oh yes, her shadow is very aware of the conversation despite looking busy. An eyebrow twitches and climbs even while he adds semicircle slices of provolone cheese to the bread.

"Don't gimme 'ow'. Gimme details!"

Beckett drops her forehead into her palm, sighs. "Uh, well, I woke up first this morning. You know me, can't sleep past six even without an alarm. So, after I was done with the morning rituals I killed an hour to myself by getting the coffee going and exploring while it was brewing."

"Katherine Houghton Beckett..."

"No, Lanie, look. This was one-hundred-percent accident, I swear. We got here late last night, so we didn't have the energy for a tour. I was just looking around. I didn't know where anything was, including the master suite. I just, uh, found it." She waits, but the other doesn't offer so much as a peep of interruption. "It was another closed door to me. I flung it open the way I had the other ones and trundled right on in. And there he was, au naturel."

Castle's mouth falls open some as he sends a startled look over at her. It's news to him. Her unexpected striptease on the beach wasn't their first brush with nudity that day. _More like karmic retribution in action._

"He sleeps naked?" The M.E. sucks in a breath and expels a purely playful accusation, "That slut."

Kate tips her head back with a lilting laugh, her free hand lofting after to ineffectively hide one rosy cheek. "It's not funny, really. I don't think he slept well. The covers were all kicked around and rumpled." She pauses, wets her lips unconsciously while the man beside her purses his firmly and goes back to work. "All he had left was a sheet pulled up to his right hip."

"He sleeps on his left side?"

"Mmhmm, facing in."

"Why is knowing that hot? Wrong, but so hot. Don't stop."

Beckett tugged the collar of her shirt away from her body to fan at herself despite the mildness of the midday temperature. "You know, he'd told me last night that his bedroom was downstairs now that I'm thinking about it. I dunno why it didn't occur to me to be more careful. It's all very Freudian in hindsight. Anyway, I saw him there in bed and kinda seized up like a deer in a pair of headlights. I started backpedaling right on out again not three seconds later. It just happened to be two seconds too late. He didn't wake up, but he turned over onto his back."

Lanie grunted in anticipation.

Castle issued something similar from his throat, but his was definitely more a note of grim expectation.

"I, uh, knew what I was seeing even before it happened. Because the sheet just, well, it didn't do much to conceal the shape." She stopped, her eyes closing. "I can't believe I'm telling you this."

"Neither can I," Rick hisses aside at her.

"You're not," the other woman growls, "but you damn well better!"

"I saw it moving as he was turning, lifting up half-roused, and I knew in an instant that the sheet wasn't going to save me. It was like being in a cartoon: y'know when that coyote sees the shadow of a falling safe and realizes he's about to get wrecked?" She pauses as the other gurgles a strangled laugh. Rick snorts lightly, his shoulders quivering even as he shakes his head. "Sure enough, it slid free of the covers and out it flopped. It was like watching a whale falling back in the ocean. I heard the hollow kinda thunk it made against his belly. I felt as if it had hit _me_ ; honest to god, I flinched as if he'd swung it in a bestial slap against my cheek. I was dumbstruck." The author has his face buried in his hands at this point, but his upper half is shaking with mute laughter. It has to be. He's not modest enough for sobs of humiliation.

"Oh god," her besty murmured. She expels a swift, breathy laugh, but then a groan. "Okay, stop. Goodness freaking gracious. I can't listen to another word." But not a second later she demanded, "What'd you do?"

"I closed the door! And then I ran all the way back upstairs as if it that monster was right on my heels."

"Ugh! You bitch," Lanie simpered. "How can you end it there?"

Beckett unfurled a surprised, but also embarrassed laugh. "Oh hell. It was so wrong. But it happened so fast. A handful of seconds from blunder to flight, no more. I still feel...ugh, perverted. Guilty, even if it wasn't on purpose."

Castle looks askance at her between his fingers. His hands lower halfway around an expression slowly shifting from embarrassed surprise to include what she thinks is guarded interest.

"But you also felt a little thrilled," Lanie suggests knowingly.

The detective twinges in mute protest of the accuracy attached to the words. "Maybe more than just a little thrilled. God, Lanie, is that as messed up as it sounds? I'm sick, I know. A filthy peeping Thomasina."

"Honey, that's how I'd feel too, but chill. It would be perverted if you'd gone looking for it. An accident is just that."

"That helps a lot to hear. Like, an obscene amount. Thank you. I know what I was doing at the time, and what I had absolutely no intention of doing, but even so...part of me enjoyed it, which makes me feel like I participated somehow." It's more than curiosity now. Her flesh-and-blood companion looks...quietly fascinated.

The M.E. spills out a laugh, reeling her attention back to the phone. "Sorry. Really. You're fine, I promise. It's just now I've got this image in my head of you ogling his dick like a tensed up cat about to pounce on a toy mouse. Butt-wiggle and all."

"Lanie!"

The other could only laugh though, and soon both were. It settles gradually. "Oh, Lordy."

Kate sighs breathlessly. "I keep thinking about women I've heard talk about him in chance encounters during our cases, the way they kinda hounded after him. It seemed downright cold-blooded at the time. But now...no fucking wonder. I didn't know he was torturing the women of New York City's high society with that leviathan in his pants."

Castle grimaces again. He turns resolutely back to making the sandwich as a hint of crimson stains his cheeks.

"I'm so done," Lanie grunted. "I gotta go. Back to work, Kate, for at least five more hours! Thanks a lot!"

"I'm sorry! You asked."

"I did, and I'm feeling appropriately punished. I'd say be good, but honey, you be bad—all kinds of bad."

"Who, me? Bye. Love you." Beckett hangs up and exhales a deep breath. It feels better to have gotten that scene out of her head. There'll be hell to pay later for not also mentioning the kiss. A pair of amusing accidents is easier to talk about than the intentional rewrite of her and the author's relationship as they know it. For now, that belongs only to the two of them. "Funny ol' world, isn't it?" she offers while setting the phone aside on the counter.

"Certainly a reciprocative one today," he agrees with a low chuckle, adding turkey over the layer of ham. He looks askance at her a moment, shakes his head. "I can't believe you stood right here and said all that."

The answer seems clear enough, but she has to ask, just in case. "Did it bother you?"

"No," is the ready reply, clear and crisp with certainty. He moistens his lips, nods in self-agreement. "It was...odd, and embarrassing too, sure. But interesting. It feels like I was just given a peek behind the curtain at the wizard of Oz."

"Mm. We know what special attribute he gave you, don't we? Not ruby slippers," Kate sing-songs impishly.

"Seriously," the other continues, smiling as he does. She watches him reach to lay his right hand over her left. "Thank you. I see what you're showing me, you know? Same as I saw it last night."

"I'm not high society," Beckett ventures aloud, a bundle of nerves though the words emerge steady and normal. "Not by a mile. I'm as down to earth as it gets. Foul mouthed and minded. That's not just from working so long among the coarse mouths of other cops, or even criminals for that matter. It helped, no doubt, but I've always...It's always come more natural to say and do what I mean when I mean to. I'm no lady, Castle."

"You're authentic," he says, squeezing some at the appendage he's captured. "Sometimes that's classy and others not. That's so much better than any pretentious façade. Don't hide that from me, please. The way you are at work—it's clear why you need to be, and for a thousand different reasons, but primarily out of respect for the uniform and for yourself. It's more serious there." He sighs, but not heavily. He looks a little blown away. "I should have seen this coming. You've hinted at more. All this time I've been collecting your breadcrumbs, but to be honest, I wouldn't have imagined you knew how to be, or even wanted to be, so uninhibited and unguarded. It's...glorious."

 _Ugh_. He's killing her right now. Of all the secrets _she_ has, this is the one Beckett worries will prove too contrary to his lifestyle to allow them to work as a couple. It may yet. But he seems to genuinely enjoy her unflinching openness. It's scary how exciting that is, the idea of being herself fully and freely with him, the budding expectation that he can handle her unfiltered. "Sometimes its gets downright trashy," she's compelled to expound for him.

Castle's face tilts upwards with a brief, throaty chuckle. "I can't wait."

"Maybe it won't seem so charming if you have me on your arm at some fancy party and something nasty slips out."

"Are you kidding? I'm never taking you anywhere you can't be yourself. What party could compare?"

Beckett stops him in the middle of reaching for a knife to cut the sandwich in half. He meets her gaze and, slowly, his countenance turns as solemn as hers. "Time," she begins quietly, "is the final arbiter. You know that, obviously, maybe even better than me. I'm reiterating the point because it has a way of dulling the luster from the things we find shiny and pretty at the start of a relationship. There's only one real version of me, Castle. It's all I know how to be when I take off the shield. I can make myself behave, obviously, but I can't change the roughness of the truth that'll always be waiting beneath it. I could never be happy living a censored life to satisfy other people's expectations. That's no life at all."

Castle studies her for several seconds after she's finished speaking. At length he lowers his focus to his culinary efforts, which he halves with the blade and puts on two plates. There are Doritos and a couple pickle spears already there. As one is slid before her he meets her eyes again. "I won't make light of your concern by promising something I might not be able to deliver on later. Time does have that power, you're right. Forever is a romantic concept, but, sadly, just as unrealistic."

She smiles slightly, but doesn't attempt to interrupt.

"But Kate, don't hide from me. Not when we don't have to. We're both a part of this. It's just as likely that you'll wake up one day and find me insufferable. Or...maybe we'll go the rest of our lives enjoying what we found in one another." He lofts a forestalling hand before her widened eyes. "I'm not trying to freak you out with talk of the future. I'm simply saying it's a two-way street. We came here to unearth...terrible things. Maybe it'll be too much to reconcile with whatever image of me you've been carrying around thus far. We don't know. All we do can is take this one day at a time."

"One Dorito at a time," she confirms, crunching into one. He grins and nods.

They fall mutually silent for a time, focusing more on their meals. But their gazes stray often to the other, each teeming with questions, musings, none of which is coherent enough to be put into words. It is exciting, a thrill in her veins, but in a strange way that settles in quiet as a whisper and as looming as the ocean beyond the house's eastern delimitation.

"A whale," he says a while later, and shakes his head ruefully.

She grins broadly. "Don't saddle me with the blame for that one. I only borrowed the comparison already in popular use."

* * *

 **Work didn't give me time to catch up with you guys individually this go around, but I appreciate the kind words. The previous chapter'll stand as is, because you helped it make sense. So thanks for that too.  
**

 **Also, heh, I feel behooved to note that the pet-name Rick uses for Kate is in no way factual in regards to the Allie to whom this story was dedicated (that I know of). John's name is already here, so it was just a fun way to include hers as well. Given the way it came about, however, it might linger per Lanie's prediction.**


	7. Stepping to the Ledge

Dusk is creeping upon them again. With every downward inching of Apollo's iconic sphere a quiet foreboding is gathering within Beckett. It's only seven. There are still a couple hours before the day is tucked in beneath a sable, celestial-patterned quilt. It marks the twenty-fourth hour since Kate spilled the first secret which started them on this course.

Part of her wonders now what would have happened if she hadn't. Would Richard Castle have left the precinct and slowly, inexorably, her life as well? Maybe they're too caught up in this thing of theirs by now. Perhaps even if he had left they would have eventually come back around to one another later like planetary bodies locked in orbit. _Not like fate_ , she reminds herself, _but choices made subconsciously in the pursuit of something..special._

One full day is so brief a span—barely worth mentioning really. Probably not enough to be entertaining thoughts of 'them' as an irrevocable force of any kind. It feels like more than mere hours though.

Her intent was to open a doorway for both of them, as if stepping between rooms. Instead it feels like they exited out into a wide open vista complete with an ocean view. Montauk is a world apart. Amidst its quiet charm they are basically all one another has, all the other needs. Even the wildfire of time has relented some in its voracious consumption. It feels like ages since the first time his fingers slid among hers, since he feathered her lips with that intimate signature of his kiss. They're both already more than either knew.

No. That's not entirely accurate. The man she left the city with is strikingly close to what she'd imagined as a younger woman, when the only knowledge of him she bore was gleaned between the covers of his book jackets. The way Rick has been here is no less than she would expect from the man who waded through the dark rivers of the human heart with her, who in doing so assuaged the immutable torment of her mother's murder. It used to take a difficult case or his daughter's presence to glimpse the adult within her shadow. That nine-year-old on a sugar rush didn't follow them out here. Oh, he's no less willing to play with her, which she loves, but he's also quieter, calmer, self-assured rather than self-possessed. Only the way he watches her feels entirely familiar; that eerie sense of being truly beheld. There's no specific expectation in those blue eyes, only genuine interest in whatever she might do next.

Now more than ever Kate is consumed by the need to learn what happened to him. All of it.

Part of that is for Castle's sake, to make him feel the way she does under that heart-stuttering kind of scrutiny, and to let him know she values him for the darkness and the light. Part is for her too though. Beckett needs to see him in the aftermath of their cards being laid upon the table. There's an element of undeniable fear attached to that. After experiencing him this way, she doesn't want to go back to how it was before. So, the question has become: is he like this because of this place, because of whatever happened to him here? Or is this the real Richard Castle caught with his playboy facade lowered the way her own version of a mask has been slipping?

Twenty-four measly hours—hardly anything at all. But the thought of this stopping...

"I'm a little scared," Kate hears herself say aloud in a rare admission. It's quiet, but emerges steadier than she feels.

"Me too," comes the reply from her right. She turns her head some, lured by the same quiescence of Rick's deeper timbre. He's facing south towards the coast. From that angle the waning daystar presents a glowing line along his profile. Half of him is awash in that crisp light while the other half, facing her, is a gloom of tense masculinity. A white button-down shirt houses his upper half, though only latched to mid chest. The sleeves are tugged onto his forearms. A pair of khaki slacks contain the lower, the cuffs likewise rolled a couple times onto his calves. "We're just getting started," he adds, and watches his own fingertips release and curl again around the edge of the chair arm. "I don't want to stop."

Beckett can't look at him like that—raw and wanting it. It's too stark a reflection of herself. Never mind the fact that he just plundered her thoughts straight from her head. "What you want to tell me can't be _that_ bad," she volleys, but even to her ears the words ring feebly on the spring air. She clears her throat, shifts with discomfort where she rests, and tries again with the strict truth for her part. "It is terrible. I can see that much. It's not like something out of Stand By Me; you didn't stumble across a body in the woods. You...saw someone in the act, didn't you?"

It takes a long second before he turns to look at her. There's no other semblance of an answer.

"Yeah," she expels on a whisper, otherwise motionless amidst the connection of their gazes, as he seems to be. "In the act, but not something quick and neat. You watched someone savor it." Castle turns away again, but his features are paler and his lips are parted in a successful effort to control his breathing. "A man," she concludes, "who killed a woman. I used to think having a daughter put that look on your face when those kinds of cases came along. I'm sure that's part of it. But there's this piece of history attached to that too, isn't there?"

"It wasn't a woman," Castle replies evenly, rising from the chair. She feels knots of tension being tied in her guts as he descends the stairs out onto the grass, but he isn't going far, merely exiting the shadows of the deck in favor of standing in the fullness of the dwindling light. Even though Kate is sitting less than twenty feet from him the author looks very much alone and uncharacteristically vulnerable. "It was five of them."

 _Oh God, no. A serial killing?_

Time seems to contort itself again around the minor eternity it takes for her to find the will to ask an even more difficult question. "When did this happen to you?"

"It was the summer of seventy-five."

 _Six years old._

Beckett vacates her chair in a rush with a scrape of the legs upon the floorboards. It's an involuntary flinch of grief and disgust. She sucks down a noisy breath and abandons the deck to join him. "Castle..." She pauses at his right side. He doesn't look at her, but doesn't shy away either as her hand rises to stroke across his brow and comb back through his hair. His right arm stirs, hesitates, and then slides around the circumference of her waist.

"It is a terrible story," he says, "but it's also ancient history. That's what I want you to keep in mind tonight if you can. I lose people over this because they hear what happened and it changes how they see me, as if I'm no longer the same person." Castle smooths a circle between her scapula with his hand at her back. "I am though."

Kate has been mulling over this situation since the drive out here, but especially over the past few hours. His assurances now make it sound simple enough. But if Rick was right about them coming here and being able to pull this off, if he was right about so many things... It certainly paints his former dread in a more perilous light. She's staving off a flutter of queasiness by telling herself that there is a precedent at work here. He's learned to expect the worst. Kyra didn't have the benefit of Kate's experience though, in life or on the job with the NYPD. As for Castle, he's not infallible. He intuits her with startling accuracy at times, but he doesn't know her. Not really. Not yet. It's a serial killing for heaven's sake; it's perfectly normal to be shy about discussing it. It doesn't mean she'll prove his fears right by freaking out somehow.

"It's not too late, you know." She startles inwardly at the depth of his voice emerging again. "We can hop into the car right now, take a drive. We can do anything else you want to do."

 _Not yet_ , she muses in reiteration, _but goodness he's closing in on me fast_.

"I need to know, Castle." The words are almost as much for herself as they are for him. In the wake of them she feels a little less nervous and more impatient to get at this thing. The wait is only making it worse. "I know you're worried. I'm...feeling some anxiety myself right now. But we don't run, do we? Have we ever?"

He looks away again, lips pursed briefly in consideration. "We haven't, no, but that doesn't mean there aren't enemies or situations out there worthy of retreating from. Do you imagine it would lessen us to withdraw or defer in such circumstances?" The rhetorical question is valid, but it's the last thing she needs to hear right now.

That first step being the doozy it was, they are still recovering and processing together when a pair of headlights flashes across the grounds ten minutes later. She turns. He doesn't.

"That'll be John Autry, the police Sergeant I mentioned yesterday. The case files don't leave the lock-up where they're stored. Visitors have to go to them, no exceptions, and he's agreed to chaperon."

Beckett sighs quietly again. The last thing she wants is to share this with someone else, let alone strangers. "There are parts you can't talk about? Is that why other people need to be a part of this?"

"'Can't' is the optimal word," Castle replies evenly. "I've tried to hang onto it all over the years, but some is faded now, some gone entirely. And then some of it was never actually kept in the first place. There are blank spots in my mind even though I was there. I know the women involved. I had to know them," he adds, almost inaudibly in the ambient noise of early evening. "But there's also a lot of information I was never able to dig into."

He leans just slightly into her when she curls her arms around his shoulders and rests her forehead lightly against his chest. She lays a kiss into the shallow pectoral valley, nestled between the lapels of his shirt amidst the smell of fresh laundry and underlying scent of him. "You're not coming with us, are you?" Castle doesn't offer anything more than a stroke of her hair, which is answer enough. "It's going to be a while. Will you be okay alone?"

"I'll give you my cell to take with you. Call if you have any questions, or just...want to."

Drat, that's right. She hurled hers into the waves earlier. Castle actually found it after a bit of snorkeling, but it's still pulled apart and drying out inside, which may or may not be enough to see it functional again.

A creak of the deck has her looking up and both of them turning.

Beckett tenses, alarmed to find the new addition not only arrived, but having approached to the top of the stairs several feet from them before arousing attention. He stands around Castle's height, maybe 6'2" with a similar medium build. Hues of dusk lay a fiery reflection across a smoothly shaved head. It emphasizes a hawkish brow marked by thick eyebrows and the matching blackness of a long goatee about his full mouth and strong chin. The imposing man's olive-toned complexion is testament to the waning potency of the Native American bloodline from whence he came. He's dressed in uniform blues with the hat held in both large hands. It rises some along with an open palm in a mute indication of peaceful intentions.

Castle lowers his arms and steps apart some, looks from their company to Kate and back again. He introduces them with a lift of his hand in indication. "Sergeant John Autry, Detective Second-Grade Katherine Beckett, NYPD."

The note of formality is outshone only by the obvious pride her shadow exudes on her behalf. It's sweet. She starts to correct him despite that, to offer her given name as being enough, but the chill vacancy apparent in the other man's dark eyes leaves the offer of familiarity stuck in her throat. She watches their visitor's head dip in a grave nod, nothing more, and decides against it. With some people respect is more important than friendliness.

"Sergeant," she returns evenly, retreating behind the mask of professionalism.

They linger in cool silence for a few awkward seconds.

Rick sighs quietly. "Like a band-aid then." He regards John and says, "I only spoke of the basics. No names, few details, and she's not independently familiar with the case. It's from square one, as before." _As with Kyra_ , Beckett tacks on mentally, and purses her lips briefly. So the Sergeant played tour guide then too? He must know how that ended. Damn. Small wonder his reception towards her is so aloof. He must be expecting the worst to occur to Castle again. Kate slides hers fingers among Rick's. They curl into hers without hesitation.

"No time to waste," John says, the first he's spoken. The voice is a smooth-flowing tenor. "We'll start with the case files, branch out from there as far as is needed." _As far as is needed_. In other words: until she runs away screaming. Normally that might be an insulting insinuation, but under the circumstances the detective's pride has taken a step back and left the specter of grim expectation as her vanguard. "I'm parked out front," the officer informs Beckett, and leaves.

She arches an eyebrow as he goes and faces Castle when the sound of the front door has closed. "Wow."

"He's slow to thaw," her companion provides. "But he's a fine man, Beckett, and a good cop."

"He cares about you," she returns mildly. "I'm surprised you'd ask him to show me around given what happened last time. You're kinda putting him in the role of executioner for your heart. Can't be easy."

Castle tilts his head at her, smiles with unexpected breadth. He eases into her for an agreeably firm embrace. "I've never asked him to, and for the reason you've already surmised. Remember, it was his father's case. It's become something of a dark legacy. I don't think he trusts anyone else to tell it right." Her eyes close as he strokes through her hair again. "Someone else in your shoes might have only seen him being rude to them. You're pretty amazing yourself, Kate."

There's that familiarity of her first name, but on his lips it emerges on the hush with which a taboo might be whispered, charged with forbidden eroticism. She nestles her face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in and wishing for the first time since leaving the city that they had come merely for pleasure.

It's a brief inner protest and doesn't linger when she withdraws enough to meet his gaze. Direct rays of sunlight elicit vibrancy from every fleck and splinter of available pigment in his expressive orbs. They scatter the fallen leaves of her misgivings and lay bare the long thoroughfare of her conviction. He's the blue of the sky above the courthouse steps after the fresh administration of justice, the color of one flawless raindrop clinging to a blue aster in the window boxes of her childhood home, the color of Manhattan's sister rivers hurrying to join the mighty Atlantic.

The curves of his mouth come together below the gems of her fascination, his eyebrows furrowing above. She's concerned him by the hesitation spent drinking him. "I've put you in just as tricky a situation, haven't I? There may not be a uniform in your case, but there is a typically stylish professionalism, heels and coats. Peeling away the layers today was a pretty stark reminder that there's flesh beneath it, supple, pliant, and vulnerable." His free hand rises and slides over the roundness of her shoulder to perch at the curve of her neck. "I know you _can_ do this. But you may stop at any point. No one—and I do mean no one—who worked this case back then emerged out the other side entirely whole. I would be happier knowing it's not haunting one more person than I would be to know you see me even a little more clearly."

"I would rather see clearly than be content in obliviousness." He knows better. It's written into him. But she doesn't let him dwell on the matter any longer. Beckett reaches for him with a cupping of her hands and tip-toes to lay her lips upon his. It's a merger or comfort more than passion with slow, mind-sizzling caresses. They pause and hover with their mouths touching for a breath of air two different times before finally coming fully apart again.

Kate lowers with reluctance even then, smooths a hand at his chest in silent parting, and claims a girding breath as she strides through the house. She grabs his cell, her weapon and badge wallet. The sound of the front door latching in her wake is so coldly metallic compared to the memory of his warmth that it induces a minute cringe of her shoulders and a shiver that climbs down the ladder of her spine.

John meets her gaze with stoic patience where he stands at the driver's side door of a police unit Ford F-150 with a short bed and crew cab. Neither says a word to the other. She climbs in when he unlocks it, buckles up without being able to tear her gaze from the house. Castle emerges through the front door just as the headlights come to life. At that moment he's the lone speck of familiarity in the world.

She's so often solitary in the life she's built for herself, but there hasn't been an overabundance of time to lament that fact. Watching him watch her leave with a stranger sitting nearby, their destination some new field with a fresh crop of horrors... It is the most poignant stab of loneliness she's felt in recent memory.

* * *

 **A/N:** Ugh. So sorry for the delay you guys. It's been a perfect storm of technical difficulties and distraction here lately, not the least of which was discovering a happy heap of videos from the Castle Fanfic Stream Convention. I'm bummed I missed it in progress! Thanks to everyone who participated, and to Esther for spearheading the festivities. You're awesome.

Also, I got a call from John a couple days ago, which is kinda creepy considering how long its been and what with me starting up writing again recently. Anyway, I was given a reading of the riot act for starting this story and not taking over the reins and finishing Promises in C-Minor. It's true we plotted a _lot_ of Castle mythology together. Also fair to say our 'monozygotic' writing styles would make for a relatively easy hand-off. Now I'm in a damned quandary... Do I finish this, or that one? Doing both feels too much like repeating myself. Ourselves, rather.

I'm still puzzling the issue, but I would greatly appreciate any thoughts on the matter from you guys.


	8. An Unlikely Alliance

Banal conversation starters tease the tip of Beckett's tongue during the fifteen minute drive back into downtown East Hampton. None of them emerge. John's sunglass-shielded gaze and scruff-obscured countenance is flat-out uninviting. The man's posture is slightly more talkative, but not in a good way; those thick shoulders are scrunched, and both hands are gripping around the wheel at the ten and two positions. He's pressed almost flush against the driver's side door. The only way he could get farther away from her would be if he thrust open the door and combat rolled away upon the unforgiving street. She can fathom the why of his behavior, the potential threat she poses in his mind, but it still seems ridiculous.

Beckett changed earlier into denim jeans, a pair of blue chucks, and a powder blue peasant top with a split-V neckline and short sleeves. Now she wishes she'd worn a bra, which is equally silly, but true. What had been more relaxing and a fun flirtation with Castle is beginning to feel like an uncomfortable sense of nakedness with the Sergeant. Embarrassing sensitivity induced by the awareness of his dislike has her nipples stiffened into turgid buds against the fabric in a direct pain-in-the-ass contradiction to attention she doesn't want on them. _Go to sleep, bitches._

Without dipping into egotism, she finds her company's lack of engagement disarming. Most hot-blooded men are glad for a chance to chat her up, and that's not necessarily about coming onto her. She loosens their tongues just by being. Even shy men can be goaded into falling under that spell. Beauty is the realm of genetics, not a skill she can claim to have earned, so there isn't an abundance of wounded pride when it fails, but when that happens it's generally not a good sign. By the time they pull into the parking lot outside of a red brick building her patience is already wearing thin. She watches John look askance at her while stowing his hat and shades. He cants his head indicatively before exiting the truck without a word.

"Alright, enough," Beckett voices as she follows after him. The truck bleats behind them as the officer locks up in their wake. Her eyes skim the mundane exterior of their destination without discerning its function before they lower to her companion again. Far from intimidated, he looks only a bit perturbed by the delay of her cross-armed halt upon the sidewalk. "Say whatever you want to say to me, John. I'm serious. Let's get it out of the way right now. I've got enough on my mind without you tip-toeing around because of the stick you have lodged up your ass."

The Sergeant doesn't merely not reply. He doesn't even react. _No one home._

"What?" she demands, arms lofting from her sides. "You think I'm going to wig out and take off, right? Or something along those lines, like the last woman you ferried around here? Well that isn't happening. I don't quit the people I care about like that. And not to toot my own horn, but I've been picking up the wreckage after human monsters for almost ten years now. I don't flinch easy. I'm here for answers. So, you and I need to suck it up, bury this awkwardness, and get this thing done. Then we can both get back to the people we _do_ want to be with."

"I hope you're a bit more circumspect in the interrogation room," he observes dryly. "There's a reputation on the line."

Beckett blinks at him, tilts away somewhat. Silence drip, drip, drips. It puddles and lays there between them. "Did you just make fun of me?" He scowls at her for having to ask. _That's a yes!_ She blinks a couple more times, wide-eyed, then huffs at him amidst a sudden torrent of relief. "Good grief, John! What the _hell_?"

"Right back at ya. You're the one losing your shit, not me."

"Because you're acting like I'm patient zero of a disease you don't wanna catch!"

The Sergeant scratches the back of his neck. "I'm...acclimating."

"Acclimating? Oh my—jeez!" A palm rises to smooth over her hair. "Okay, no. Fine. Are you, uh, all better now?"

"No. It's been twenty minutes, lady. I don't know you from any other asshole."

The detective grinds her teeth and jabs him sharply in the chest. "That's all the more reason not to assume the worst."

John backs off a pace and rubs at the site, but is otherwise calm. "I'm a pragmatist. And I don't like surprises. For example, Richard said you were funny. Clearly that was something of an overstatement."

"What the fu—I am funny!" she howls back at him. "I'm hilarious."

He sniffs, unimpressed, and turns away. "Your modesty is certainly laughable."

 _Oh snap._ She gapes, almost laughs, but quickly scrunches her lips at the unexpected jab, which she's guessing is about her protrusions at chest-height just as much as her declarations of a vaunted sense of humor. When did he even check her out? She missed it. Damn, he _is_ good. "I should've known," Kate mutters, rubbing two fingers into the corners of her eyes. "Any lifelong friend of Castle's couldn't be normal, not even here, where things are so different."

"What shade of eyeliner is that? Kettle black, pot maybe? It suits you."

Beckett huffs again, amused against her will. She is relieved, and not just because this might make her work tonight easier. It's not only her; Castle laughs with other people here too. She would have guessed as much really, but the looming shadow cast by his history was starting to make her wonder. It could have gone either way. "Look," she begins, "we're not _in_ the box. And we may be from different jurisdictions, but we toe the same blue line, right? I'm giving it to you straight here, John, and I expect the same in return. I need your help. I really need to...not mess this up."

The other regards her with the same stoicism displayed thus far. If she hadn't just seen him play with her she wouldn't believe him capable of it. Hell, she did and it still feels like an error of some kind on her part. "I prefer candor as well," he replies mildly. "And you're right. There's too much on the line to play around with getting our signals crossed any further." A hand rises from his belt to gesture to the door. "Let's head inside. There's a coffee machine."

 _Say no more._ It's going to be a long night. She has that feeling. Beckett slips through the door he opens ajar enough for both of them, noting as she passes the only identifying feature on the portal, frosted white letters stenciled across the glass: Assessor's Office. There are phone and fax numbers beneath. Mystified, Kate forgoes any questions for the moment. She crinkles her nose at the scent of fresh cleaning supplies draped upon the air in the wide hallway. The floors are polished concrete wrought in a curiously distinctive brown. Under the three-foot sections of UV ceiling fixtures patches of it shine a paler, handsome shade of copper.

John leads the way forward. They bypass a partitioned office on the left where a security guard is sitting behind a glass wall at a desk. The pale-faced fellow is a little older, rounder, and shorter than her Native American guide and wears a white dress shirt under a black vest. He looks up as they pass and beholds her with a sharp spike of his eyebrows. Kate tries to be a good sport about such things. She swishes a hand blindly backwards near her ass as they continue on by, as if swatting at a bothersome insect. A telling, embarrassed cough emerges from the office.

 _Some guys are subtle, others not so much._

There's a principle one waiting right now who looks at her in a way no one else has. An already dim humor darkens as her thoughts turn to imagining what Rick might be doing. Probably washing the dishes from their quick dinner that polished off the rest of the lobster stew and shrimp scampi. Maybe he's poking around online to determine the likelihood of rescuing her water-logged cell. Let it be a task as mundane as either of those, not him tucked away and worrying in some dark corner of that huge house. Castle has never struck her as the kind of man who doesn't know what to do with himself without her around, not even at the precinct where a smidge of inaction might be called for. _You never struck me as the kind of guy that I would be discreetly sleuthing around about either though. It's all fluid again, as if we're meeting for the first time._

"You should know," John says, ripping her from her thoughts, "that there are still nondisclosure issues in play with this case." He pauses before an unmarked doorway. "Normally it would take serious political muscle to get access to this room."

"Uh, okay. Wait—are we actually allowed to be here?"

John glances down the hall towards the office, now out of sight, and then to her again. He finds the necessary key on a ring of them and sinks it into the lock, opening the way into a smallish office suite with the same flooring, pale tan walls, and polystyrene ceiling tiles. "Technically, no one is. I have the key for emergency purposes only, like if a contractor working in the ducts fell through the ceiling and needed help. That's what I was told." John snaps on the overhead lights and she enters after him, squinting around the twelve-by-twelve space. There's no window in the room, only a central table with two metal-limbed, black padded chairs and a bank of grey file cabinets at the far wall. Atop the last are stacked unmarked cardboard filing boxes. The room smells of aged papers and vaguely of mildew.

"Why are the case files here in the first place? Assessors don't work serial murders."

John turns sharply, looking to her and then the doorway. He closes it. "Keep your voice down." Beckett arches an imperious eyebrow, but that doesn't give the Sergeant enough pause for her to chide him the way she did Castle last night about shushing her. "This used to be the old police precinct. When the location changed all of this was left behind."

"Why?"

The Sergeant uses a different, smaller key to unlock each of the five cabinet sections. Her eyebrows lift at the thought of them having to plow through so much content. As he works at the task John says, "DOJ files can't legally be destroyed without a process of approval, which would garner renewed attention to the existence of these files. None of this has been digitized. You won't find any of it in NCIC or the like. It's here specifically because no one wants it to be anywhere else. There's no need for it to be after all this time. You might liken this place to a tomb in that respect. It has nothing anyone in the Hamptons wants to remember, but its everything we can't forget." _Oh god._ "It's looked after by private security now, hence that armed guard in a building where a security system would normally suffice."

"We aren't going to get into trouble for being here?"

John's expression is stony as he faces her again, revealing neither concern nor its opposite. "There's no need to sweat over that. You're here with Richard in a fashion. That buys enough grace with everyone else involved. Having said that, I cannot caution you strongly enough, Detective: what you see here needs to stay here."

"Sure." No flippancy was intended, but such easy concession proves the wrong thing to say.

The Sergeant narrows his eyes and lowers his chin in a glare that straightens Kate's spine where she stands. _Yeesh._ "A few of the victim's families are old blood and older money. Any one of them would happily buy up everything familiar in your life and burn it to ashes in front of you just to express their displeasure before the real trouble starts. And there are _three_ such families, none of whom would pass up the chance to throw in their two cents." Pride be damned, Kate swallows uneasily. "Then there are the cops and select civilians who were involved, many of whom carry it with them to this day in their own manner. And, of course, there's Richard, who might be the one to worry about most when it comes to betraying the confidence of what lies in this room."

"John, I would never—

"No," he interrupts, "of course not. I believe you, Detective Beckett. Rather, Richard does, and that's good enough for me. We wouldn't be here otherwise. But I'm obliged to give you the spiel. Not just by law, but from the perspective of someone who wouldn't want to see you pay dearly for a thoughtless slip of the tongue months down the road from now when the warnings have faded from mind and worry. Bury all of this somewhere deep after you leave. No one will care how unintentional any leak is. No one will forgive it."

Beckett exhales a puff of a breath, nods more slowly in agreement. Then tilts her head somewhat, recalling what Castle said about the Sergeant's father being the lead on the case, how it has lingered with the family to this very day. "You didn't mention where you weigh in on that."

John stares at her for a long moment. She watches with her muscles tensing in apprehension as his gaze slowly softens in a swift and subtle display of pity. Then he turns slowly away, moving to the cabinets.

 _Fuck me..._

No verbally issued threat could have topped that.

When she finds her voice, Beckett says, "I, uh, wasn't asking that to be obtuse. It's sounds like people were affected by the case. I mean, obviously they were, and it's not unusual for those feelings to linger for the rest of peoples' lives." Her voice quiets some without her permission. "I know it has for me." John half turns to look at her. He might not be overly expressive, but the small connection of his direct focus is something at least. He's making the effort now. She wonders if he realizes it. "Do you get my meaning in this instance though? This feels different."

"It would." A few of the boxes stacked atop the cabinets are moved onto the table. "You'll understand why as we get into it. Uh, there's something I'd like to discuss before we do. But first, I promised you a cup of coffee. How do you take yours?"

Beckett tells him and watches as he goes with a quiet sigh. He's testing her, right? Seeing if she'll wait like he asked or dive right in while he's gone. If it were her case the latter would be a safe bet. This one clearly demands more restraint. She lowers into the chair on the right side of the table and slips out Castle's cell. An immediate ache settles in for want of his company. He sent her out with John, and in his own weird way the Sergeant is a pleasant, if gruff, reminder of her partner. But he's certainly no substitute for the genuine article, and tonight only genuine will suffice.

 _What's in here that you can't bring yourself to face? And how will I ever find it in this morbid aggregation?  
_

The password on Rick's cell has been temporarily disabled. His lock screen photo is one of Alexis sprawled on their couch with her fair face half smushed into a throw pillow. Kate smiles sadly and thumbs the phone open. The main screen image is different, and yet shockingly similar. It's one of Kate likewise laid and zonked out on the break room sofa. _Sonuvabitch._ There are also pages and pages of downloaded apps. No surprise there.

Kate pokes her way into his photo app to set a new wallpaper. There are over a dozen folder options. _Oh God!_ There's a 'KB' folder with two-hundred and eighteen images in it. The cell clatters to the table as her hands loft to her face, splaying there as if she were hiding from the thing. _I saw nothing. No._

When Beckett tentatively reaches for it again, she tells herself that she's going to make sure he doesn't have anything inappropriate from any of their crimes scenes in there. Yes. It's logical. Castle might have snapped a picture of something without even knowing he shouldn't have. When you think about it, it's her duty as a public servant to check.

That's right when John walks back in toting a pair of mugs. She flinches guiltily away from the cell before making contact, which makes him look at it and then at her. But he ventures no accusation or even a change in expression, merely slides a plain blue mug before her on the table and settles into the other chair with a shift of his wide leather belt.

"Thanks," she mumbles with a testing sip of the piping hot fluid. It's strong, but not as bitter as the NYPD brew was in their pre-espresso-machine days. "So, uh, you wanted to talk about something first? I hope it's not another warning. Trust me, the message was received loud and clear."

"I suppose it could be considered one," the other replies, folding his hands before him on the table. Those dark eyes stray to one side after speaking. The disconnect there is a little disquieting. Even when he was just starting to 'acclimate' to her company the man didn't shy from eye contact. "I hope you'll bear with me. Last time I sat in this room I dove right in, like ripping off a Band-Aid as Richard said. I...I'm afraid my, um, brusqueness may have contributed to that other young women fleeing to the far side of the world the way she did. Maybe if I had gone about this differently..."

He studies the table with obvious regret. "So, you see, like you I want to get this right. These files have a lot to say, Detective Beckett. One of the reasons they're doomed to molder away here is because most people would pour over the story they tell without a thought or care for the lens through which it was experienced by the people of this town. These days killers are akin to celebrities. It matters to us a great deal, as you can imagine, that this matter is respected."

"I can," Kate replies quietly. "It's not a lens I possess either, I know. But I'll do my best, same way I would with any case."

"You know the manner of our loss, and that's as close as any outsider can get. Uh, anyway, I make the comparison now because the man we both left behind tonight is also in these boxes. Part of him anyway. To me its just as important that Richard is seen through the appropriate lens, insofar as this case goes. Do you understand?"

"Yes." She sighs, looking to the boxes set to one side. "Two days ago I would've claimed to have a pretty decent grasp on that much. But now I'm not so sure. He's already shown himself to be different from what I'm familiar with."

John smiles, actually smiles, and for the first time Beckett realizes that he's quite handsome. There's no attraction attached to the observation, merely an appreciation for the difference that even a small curve of his mouth can make. "The first step of acquiring knowledge is admitting we lack it, don't you think?"

"I do. Lucky for me I'm sitting across from an expert on the subject."

John's smile, such as it was, fades back to the more familiar neutrality. "I know some of him, the same way that you do. Make no mistake, neither of us has the full picture where our friend is concerned. I doubt anyone does, not even him. That's true for all of us to varying degrees. But we'll put together what we can, hmm? I'll tell you what I know. And then I'll show you where Richard Rodgers stopped, stopped dead in his tracks, and Richard Castle began."

* * *

 **A/N:** Nothing like an unanimous answer to make me appreciate having asked a silly question. I'm enjoying this too, so we'll keep it moving right along. Thank you for your thoughts on the matter. Actually, the point of telling this story in the first place was to layout an AU mythology for Rick. Because I'm already a few chapters into the story that'll be following it. So yes, onward, and hopefully to plenty more. Even an eventual finish for Promises, if John doesn't get there first.


	9. Glimpses of Then

**A/N** : G'day fellow readers. The following two chapters (separated here for readability) may or may not turn out to be too AU or OOC for some of you to follow. So, I wanted to take a moment and thank everyone for coming with me this far. As for the rest of you fine folk, please enjoy the update, and I hope to have more soon.

* * *

"Tell me," John Autry asks, "do you remember when you became self-aware?" Kate arches an eyebrow at the unexpected starting point. "Uh, no, wait," he adds. Both hands rise and thread together in the air before him with his elbows set upon the table. "How do I put that better? Is it consciousness? Forgive me, this isn't something I'm in the habit of discussing quite like this. Do you know what I'm trying to ask?"

"Under the circumstances, I think so," Beckett offers, though her tone is uncertain. "You're talking about being conscious of our mortality, the consequences of our actions—coming of age realizations, right?"

The Sergeant smiles again, if minimally. Given the rareness of even that much, it counts. "He told me you were intelligent too. You're batting a thousand so far." There isn't time to preen even if she were in the mood. He carries on with a nod, "Yes. That's what I meant. When we were young, Richard's favorite stories were mostly bildungsroman, which are—

"It's German," Kate offers with a cocked eyebrow, "for a story following the psychological and moral formation of a protagonist who's exploring the transition between adolescence and adulthood. Technically, it's more a subset of the genre, because many cultures use a literal age as the delimitation rather than emotional maturity, which is automatically, often erroneously implied. We're here for a history lesson, John, not literature."

"You're bearing with me like I asked, aren't you?"

Beckett looks pointedly away. "I don't remember agreeing to that."

"Ah, but do you remember when you became self-aware?"

She purses her lips, but gives him a point for the clever transition. "It's tricky for me to answer that."

"Oh?"

Beckett shifts her weight in the chair and pauses for a sip of coffee. He's still waiting patiently as she lowers it back to the table. _Le sigh. Fine_. "I was an early bloomer, I guess. My parents had this way about them. I remember the first and only time my Dad spanked me. I was, what...three at the time? Yeah. We were at a little bodega and I wanted something—who knows what now. Candy or some toy probably. Dad said no, and I was like a little volcano, blew my top right then and there. Well, he picked me up, carried me out to the car thrashing and howling all the way, and then put me over his knee in that quiet corner of the parking lot."

She pauses as a flit of amusement rocks her upper body. "I remember it because it was such a shocking thing. And it hurt, you know? He didn't injure me or anything, of course, but he had a firm hand that night. Still, I was more surprised than anything. Dad set me upright afterward, looked me square in the eye, calm as can be, and told me 'That kind of behavior isn't going to work, Katie. You're going to have to find a different way.'"

John studies her without reaction, but she can sense interest in the minutia of his body language.

"There was something about the way he said it, or maybe it was the expression on his face. It made me think. And he saw that. He calls it my first glint of mischief."

"That's brilliant," the Sergeant remarks with an admiring shake of his head.

Kate smirks briefly. "That's how my folks were. They tried their best to make me use my noggin. You might say they steered me into self-awareness through a subtle use of influence. But," she continued, her humor pulled apart like smoke in a strong breeze, "the game all changed after my mother was taken from us. I don't want to call it regression, but it would be fair to say that I became goal-oriented even to the exclusion of self-awareness. Long story short, I found my equilibrium again over time and through therapy. So, to answer your question, I started young, but with the interrupt involved I don't feel like I really hit that marker until I was in my twenties."

"It was the same for me," the other agrees with another nod. "Different methods and causalities, but the final timeline matches. Over the years I've asked other people about their experiences regarding the matter. The answers are interesting, because we all reach that point, more or less, but there's no accounting for when. The most common answer I receive is early-to-mid twenties. That's why we term it coming of age though—its a long process of rinse and repeat. Some people do hit it in their teens though, and still others discover it quite early in their lives."

Beckett smirks again. "Are you gonna tell me that Castle is still waiting for his moment? Even I have to give him more credit than that. Granted, some days I wonder. You can take my word for it though: he's all man."

John chuckles quietly, broad shoulders stirring. _Wow. Look at you go, like an emotional caterpillar shedding its cocoon. Ich bin impressed._ "Nope. I like it when he makes me wonder, but there's no argument from me that he's hit that developmental benchmark. Actually, I'm familiar with the first time Richard talked about the fact that he would die one day. My father told me about it, I mean. I don't actually remember. We were only five."

"Five years old?" she shoots back wide-eyed.

John shrugs one shoulder. "It's not exactly rare to be that young when achieving some comprehension of death. We're speaking of degrees, mind you. A lot of kids realize it, or are told about it, and that's that. It's little more than an interesting wrinkle of their personality, not something they dwell upon. Others, however, apply their new understanding of mortality to their patterns of behavior and decision making, the way most adults do. That doesn't necessarily make an adult, of course. The gift, if that's what it can be called, is the potential for a result, not the guarantee of one. Self-awareness grants neither intelligence nor wisdom. Likewise, it doesn't make us better people. In fact, there are some who associate too much awareness too early in life to the development of psychopathy. Critical-thinking processes develop disproportionate to the ability to empathize with others. One is outpaced by the other."

"What a cheerful thought. I could've been a contender," she deadpans. "Wait...five years old." She sits forward meaningfully, growing tense and frowning. "What exactly _are_ you saying about Castle?"

"No, no, no," John replies hastily. "Nothing like that."

Beckett shifts in her chair again and crosses her arms, discomfited despite the reassurance. He asked her to bear with him. That was a simpler request at the time. "Get to the point then, John."

"We are, I promise. What we're talking about is relevant. Just not the way you inferred." She makes no reply, and at length he carries on. "Uh, where was I? Oh yes. Early awakenings like that aren't rare per se, but they are uncommon. Generally speaking, kids are allowed to be kids. You may be thinking of child-abuse victims now, or similar cases where trauma might pave the way for an epiphany on the subject, and to be fair that does result in certain cases, but not as often as you might think. There is, after all, a distinct difference between being taught to fear or respect fire, and comprehending the fullness of what fire is capable of. The truth is, the scientific consensus regarding the developmental timing of self-awareness is hit and miss. There are simply too many factors to be certain."

The subject is unsettling, but this seems to be an evening ear-marked for such. Kate doesn't let herself get swept away, but shakes her head with a sway of her hair and gestures lightly. "Go on."

"Getting back to Richard, I mentioned the day he first expressed his own cognizance of death. We were in a summer daycare together back then. I had trouble falling asleep during nap-time. Bad dreams. When that part of our day came about, he would tell me stories to help me fall asleep. Well, he told them to myself, Genie, and Laura. The four of us were always thick as thieves."

"Genie. Castle mentioned her. Your wife, right?"

The Sergeant sighs. He almost smiles, but doesn't quite. "Yes. The fact that he spoke of us is worthy of note. We never met Meredith or Gina if that tells you anything. Richard's always kept Montauk and The City at arm's length from one another. We know Alexis, but out of respect we've kept our distance. To her I'm just another cop and Genie is simply a housekeeper. She doesn't know about any of this."

 _Is that why you hide this, Rick—for Alexis' sake?_ It's not a shocking theory. And yet it is. Castle has always expressed the preference for honesty with his daughter. Some things obviously don't qualify. It would be a conundrum though; as a sole caregiver he would need his daughter's complete confidence in him. Being a victim often engenders a very different outlook even when it probably shouldn't. Survival is no sign of weakness, but some people can't make that leap. The ambivalence churning through her veins keeps her thoughts tangled for a time. John doesn't interrupt them. At length Kate scoots the matter aside. She explores the unknown name instead. "Um, he didn't mention a Laura."

"No." John moistens his lips and those dark orbs lower to the table again. "I don't expect he would. Laura was Genie's monozygotic twin sister." _Was? Oh...oh my goodness, please no. Don't say it. Not a kid._ "She was taken from us along with the four women involved in this case." Beckett winces hard and stands. She begins pacing the limited space on her half of the room in an otherwise inexpressible agitation. "Richard and her were especially close."

Slender digits push through the detective's hair as she pauses briefly with her chin lowered, hazel eyes pinned upon the polished floor. "God damn," she whispers. There's nothing else to say. Her mind is all awhirl.

John keeps going, filling in the dreadful silence. "Our mothers knew each other. That's how we ended up together to begin with. They were all pregnant at the same time. They came from different economic statuses, but they attended the same local Lamaze classes and became fast friends. They even threw one huge baby shower together at Montauk Point Light. Half the town showed up. Uh. We were all April newborns. First Rick, then the girls, and then me."

"Baby bear," Kate says with a sad smile. Her companion doesn't, but the grimness of his expression lessens some. "Okay, so you were all five years old, and you had trouble sleeping," she prompts, because the only way through this is forward and her urgency to finish this is mounting ever higher the more she hears.

"He told me: 'You gotta get better, Johnny.' Actually, he was still pronouncing it as 'Yohnny' at the time. 'J' is one of the latter consonants kids pick up. So," her companion soldiers on, "'You gotta get better, Yohnny, 'cause I won't always be here to help you sleep.' That's what he tells me one day, out of nowhere. My father said that the woman working at the time overheard him. She was upset that he knew. Genie and I didn't hear the conversation that took place between her and Richard, or if we did we didn't get it. Laura did though and she started bawling inconsolably." Once again the officer's mouth fashions itself into that almost-smile. "Poor thing. As you can imagine, her upset spread like wildfire. Soon enough Richard and our poor caretaker were standing in the middle of a storm of tears and wails from all of the other kids there with us." John exhales a soft chuckle, but his eyes are melancholy.

Beckett doesn't trust her voice enough to even open her mouth, let alone attempt speech. She isn't moved to tears easily, and indeed she is not presently, but the woman isn't made of stone either.

Mercifully, John doesn't look over at her. He's staring at his hands, though as for that, the infrequency of blinking suggests he's leagues away. "From that day on Richard was a little different." A line of consideration intrudes upon the man's otherwise smooth brow. "I don't know if that was the actual moment he realized his own mortality. Indeed, I hope not, because it was certainly the one he learned that his actions bore consequences. I know, because from that point forward he stopped wondering about things with me. I do remember that. 'What're you gonna be when we grow up?' I'd ask. Or 'Do you think we'll be friends forever?' And he'd give me this quiet little smile and turn the question around on me or distract me in some other fashion."

Beckett's fingers hover at her mouth in an unconscious attempt to hide. They're trembling lightly.

John notices. "You see where this is going?"

 _I have since you started down this road, damn you._ Kate shakes her head sharply, not in denial, but in the refusal of answering. "Don't stop," she grits.

"Uh, it took an adult's perspective for me to look back and realize what he was doing, how awakening isolated him from the rest of us. From everyone really, because he was too young to understand that most adults would've known what he was going through. He didn't want to upset anyone again, and he didn't know what was okay to speak of in terms of avoiding that outcome, so he kept far more than was necessary to himself. That moment in our daycare set a tone, you see: the kids and the only adult in the room reacted poorly. We unwittingly taught Richard to hide. It's no one's fault really, just a tangle of perfectly dreadful timing." John's tenor rings a little deeper as he says so, strained by grief. "It was only the following summer that what happened...happened. And then he was gone." One of his hands lifts with the fingers bunched skyward. He expels a breath across the tips and spreads them apart, mimicking, she imagines, the death-cycle of a dandelion when its fluffy white pappi are scattered by the wind. "Just...gone. Both of them."

 _Six years old._ Beckett faces the opposite way, which is the only modicum of privacy the room allows.

"I've forgotten most of the time between then and, oh, the following few years really. If I'm being honest," the Sergeant ventures, "I'm not sorry it's gone. Genie remembers. She's a steel trap in that respect, which just kills me sometimes. Not remembering feels like I've abandoned her to face it alone." His voice falls to an even quieter murmur. "Sometimes I imagine a scenario in which a random stranger approaches and offers me all of those memories back, like a bag full of magic beans. It's free of charge, except that I would have to go back and relive it all again in order to earn my recall. I'm not strong like Genie. Or Richard. Sometimes I accept that bag, but more often I can't bring myself to do it. I don't know what I would say if it ever actually happened."

Kate turns against her better judgment. It's a mistake. The big man's eyes are limned by a gleam of moisture along both lower eyelids. They are not tears—in the same way that the shadows in the room are not the greater entity of Nightfall. It's close enough to demand a swipe of her fingers across the slant of either cheek. She sniffs quietly, wetly, and dabs at her nose with her wrist. She returns to her chair and lowers heavily down into it.

John looks up several moments later, blinking, and clears his throat roughly. "Ah, goodness. I'm sorry."

Even to Kate's ears her voice is as thin as paper. "Don't be."

"No. This isn't even my story. I know better. It's not my intent to monopolize it somehow. God help me, even now I have the hardest time distinguishing where the lines are between us all when this stuff resurfaces."

The dark-haired woman lays a hand over one of his in a mute gesture of comfort. "Rick said that one of the reasons he held off with all of this until now was because it isn't just his story to tell."

Her companion straightens in his chair at that, nods once, and retracts his hands to curl them both around his coffee mug. "Even so, I appreciate your patience, Detective Beckett."

"It's Kate, John. Please." The other offers a small, wan smile in reply. Quiescence settles between them. They still have a long ways to go tonight, but neither proves eager enough to disturb the stillness.

It calls to mind a specific brand of silence which Kate sometimes awoke to in the middle of the night when she was a just a girl. The door to her bedroom would be almost closed with mere slivers of yellowish light bordering its dimensions from the glow of a lamp in the downstairs hallway. The softest murmur of the television would be audible if her father was still awake, or the stereo if it was her mother burning the midnight oil. Sometimes both of them would be up and even their modulated voices would reverberate upstairs to her bedroom, the first door on the left, to tease the very limits of their daughter's ability to perceive. Sometimes they would laugh, and it saddened her to be that close and yet removed from them.

That is how she feels now. So close to Castle, but inescapably held apart. He's the lure of light and sweet sound in the rooms downstairs—only vaguely heard and never quite understood.

When she was a girl those infrequent midnight awakenings came and went without her sneaking downstairs, or even to the top of them to listen a little more closely. She stayed in bed, because in the darkness of her room a little girl's fears clamored amidst the drumming of her heart, unfurling cautionary imaginings of slathering maws or taloned grips just waiting under her bed for her little toes to drift down towards the tufted surface of the carpeted floor. Those old fears were loud and demanding of attention just as much as they now seem lacking in feasibility.

There's valid reason to be afraid presently. Castle's monster proved itself real. She's guessing it rampaged within him just as much as it did out in the real world. Terror like that doesn't come with the same clamor as fear. No, the former steals upon the unwary with the barest of cold whispers, the most ancient adversary which moves unseen and unheard until the precise moment it designs to be known. It emerges from far more primordial places within the mind, as if humanity bore an inescapable genetic endowment of memory from prior ages when their species was young and vulnerable to tooth and claw. Kate feels a connection to that at times, things her mind cannot recollect but which her blood remembers where it runs deepest. Whether that heritage of dark and mindless violence actually belongs to men or besets them...she doesn't know. And that in turn is one of the definitive motivations behind the work she does: the yearning to comprehend.

Every inner stream and river, every wayward trickle and latent drip of that desire to _know_ gathers slowly as she and John linger idly at the table together. It pools in her guts and spills into all of the hollowed places carved into her by the acidic burn of recent grief until she's brimming with this more potent, purposeful energy. Then Beckett leans calmly forward where she sits, her hazel eyes dry and clear upon the man across from her. "Continue."


	10. Through Distorted Reflections

John's expression is blank again. Only the time it takes to marshal his thoughts alludes to any lingering turmoil within. Finally, he nods to himself and continues. "I wish I had the numbers for you now, all of the facts and figures regarding the things we've talked about. I don't want you to blow this out of proportion within your own mind."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, yes, Richard was a special boy. Aware ahead of his time even. But that happens. It's not abnormal, merely uncommon. Nothing about this lends itself to the fantastic. The way he was beforehand is important; it's inescapably pertinent to what eventually followed. But so is keeping in mind that Richard was still a boy. He did what boys do. We all played together, bickered, laughed, and grew. It was life in motion, nothing more or less."

Beckett feels her abdominal muscles tensing. "That sounds like a preface."

"That's what all of this is."

"A specific one though," she volleys back at him. "Let's have it."

The other's hands come apart from one another and slide together as if to generate warmth via the friction. Again, it's the only tell he offers before the words come forth. "Not yet. There's one more element we need to examine first: his imagination." The pause afterward is pregnant with meaning. She doesn't interrupt this time, but even with that lack to work with John rises from his chair. Her eyebrows loft along with him, goaded into flight by the sight of him disturbed into pacing his half of the room as she did previously.

"What about it?" Kate prods, frowning.

"It's exceptional."

"No shit," she returns dryly. "He's a best-seller for a reason."

The sarcasm rolls right off of the man's broad back without garnering any return for its passage. "I don't know how to explain this part. There's a lot to go through in here that I don't understand, but this is something I can't even fathom. Its the way his mind works. How can I make sense of it for you when I don't understand it myself?"

"You said it's imagination. What's there to figure?"

"It's different in his case. More." He pauses abruptly, lit externally by the light of inspiration, and moves back to the table, leaning some with his hands gripping its edge. "Have you ever heard of paracosm?"

Beckett blinks, delayed a moment before she nods once. "Yeah. I worked a case where the term came up. The trauma of witnessing her father kill her mother was severe enough that a fourteen-year-old girl retreated from reality into a fantasy world of her own creation. She had to be institutionalized for almost two years."

"Yes, exactly. Richard's like that." Her eyebrows soar again, prompting the man to hastily add, "Minus the loony bin part, of course, and, uh, meaning no offense by the term. Richard doesn't lose sight of the real world. But..." John pauses, sighs, and rubs at the thick column of his throat in an odd gesture of discomfort, or perhaps unease. "But he can change it within his own mind. Damn. I'm sorry. I don't know how to word this. Ask him about it later. Tell him not to sugar-coat it."

"Not to—

"Not to sugar-coat it," John repeats sternly, his expression darkening. "Because he'll try to. And if he doesn't you'll understand why. I'm not trying to make it sound stranger than it is, or like a flight from reality in the way a paracosm is, because it's not in his case. But it's more than just imagination too."

"I don't..." Beckett huffs an exasperated breath. "What's this have to do with the case?"

"Everything," John growls, startling her with a sharp slap of his palm on the table. Both mugs rattle, the contents rippling from the impact tremor. "You've seen him work. Hasn't he ever made a deductive leap that turned out to be accurate?"

"Sure," Beckett concedes reluctantly. _All the time._ Something stops her from actually saying that aloud.

"Okay, good," her companion replies, as if that was a point in his favor. "And has it ever made you wonder how he does that?"

 _Oh shit._ They're getting perilously close to something Beckett would really rather not touch. It sucks to do, but she hedges a reply that attempts to pacify the man. "He's a writer. It's his job to put himself in the mindset of his characters, including antagonists."

"Yes, and he does that very well. Enough to be the multiple best-seller you aptly mentioned. But this isn't just about the killers. His antagonists are vivid too. I wish I had one of his first drafts in one of these boxes. You'd see what I'm talking about then. A little better anyway." John exhales angrily and goes back to pacing.

"Just slow down," the detective says, her voice calm and even. "Stop, John. Take a deep breath."

"Fuck off," he replies right back at her, and even though the words weren't lashed out in the heat of anger she twitches away a tick in her seat. "Don't work me, Kate." _Phew._ When was the last time someone had the balls to come at her like that? She can't rightly recall now.

"Fair enough," Beckett replies quietly, though it goes against her grain to relent.

For some reason that does make him stop. The man observes her askance, sighs mutely and returns to the table to reclaim his seat. "Sorry," he grunts. "I really do appreciate your patience. I could even believe that it's as much for my benefit as it is for yourself in needing to hear about the case surrounding us here."

"It's both," Kate confirms easily. "You're, uh, not just describing imagination though. You know that, right?"

The Sergeant tilts his head in the classic symbolism of a question mark.

 _Here we go. This isn't going to end well._ Beckett smooths both sweaty palms against her jeans. It's not so easy to dissuade the barest trace of unevenness from her voice. "There are plenty of instances where deductive logic and Castle's brand of lateral thinking have found the thread we needed to tug during a difficult case. In some circumstances, he's pointed the way by the sheer contrast of a particularly wild theory. In other words, by being wrong in such a way that the comparatively logical alternatives were far fewer, and within them often lay the correct one. That's how he hides from us."

Beckett pauses to expel a dispirited sigh. "It's more than merely intimating we ought to look left in order to make us look right, though in essence that's the formula. To actually do that though? You have to get inside of people, know how they think and why they think it. Castle doesn't really _know_ any of us, not that well. He's successful regardless."

"I...happened to notice his method," she relents, her shoulders drawing inward some with regret. "That was months ago. I didn't say anything at the time, because...I'm not sure why anymore. There was no way to be certain _I_ wasn't imagining things. I'd never seen anyone conceal themselves quite like that. At first I worried he might leave if he was confronted. Later, I worried that he might get kicked out of the twelfth if people considered him a potential risk to our team. Because imagination is all well and good, but in light of the facts it was clear there was something more at work."

"I did the necessary research independently, including making appointments with a state psychologist who helps on our cases sometimes. All I offered was the scenario, no names or details, of course, and with the benefit of confidentiality. We settled on hyper-empathy syndrome, but putting a name on Castle's modus operandi didn't answer much. It's neuroscience, which has been around forever, sure, but it's never been something any layman can grasp. I couldn't use it to explain to people how Castle sees into others the way he does. They wouldn't buy it. I'm not sure I'd blame them."

"Plus, as Dr. Holloway pointed out to me, most credible doctors would dismiss our theory and couch Castle's gift as one aspect of some personality disorder, which is just flat-out ridiculous. I've seen the man with his daughter, mother, and random goddamn strangers. He enjoys people, practically gets off on...brightening their day with a bit of laughter or what have you. Even after I was armed with some answers it was an impasse. It was—" She stops when her voice fails her and has to clear her throat before continuing. "In the end, it just seemed better for everyone to bury it."

"Sonofabitch," John whispers. "You knew. All this time you _knew_! Well no fucking wonder you didn't want to ask him about it!" His eyes narrow into baleful dark slashes. "Asking means investing, taking responsibility."

The sharp snap of her gaze finds him with flat reflections of the overhead lights painted across them. Her anger isn't hot. It sits in her chest as cold as polar ice. "It's interesting to me," she hisses, "that you knew what Castle was doing over there in The City and never contacted us. One phone call from you would have ended everything nice and neat." She doesn't lean away, but forward in her chair. "I can all but see the wall directly behind you, Sergeant. You're a glass man living in a glass house. Don't pick a rock-throwing fight with me if you don't wanna get cut."

John sits slowly back in his seat. Nothing more. He shuts that mouth though, sure as hell.

It takes a moment for all of the jagged edges of emotion to relent and fall back into their proper places. Beckett rolls her shoulders and forces them to lower and relax. "What was I supposed to do? Out Castle in front of everyone, have the press sniffing around about him leaving? Because he damn sure would be out and there would be questions that none of us would be comfortable answering. I was in over my head, so I took what I'd compiled to Montgomery, and we...decided on an alternative course that we took in turn to Robert Wheldon. The mayor had helped start this mess. It's not like he had a lot of wiggle room when it came to us making a few caveats. Actually, it was easier than I'd anticipated. Good press goes a long way, and by sifting out the more violent and disturbing crime scenes we were effectively making our situation more palatable to be written about in the public forum. We had approval before we left the meeting that same day."

"So, you saw the glint of vulnerability in Richard and magnanimously responded by cherry-picking the marginally less horrifying cases. Remind me to send out flowers when we're done. I have so many people to thank for their consideration."

"Fuck you, John. Castle came to _us_ , and if you want the truth, he's never given me a reason to think he couldn't handle anything we might throw at him. We had no idea of the what drove him at the time. And why is that?" Kate flings an arm out indicatively to the boxes and cabinets. "Oh yeah," she drips with venomous disdain, "because in Montauk a few rich pricks wanted their cherished privacy. And no one who could say anything about it ever chose to. Don't paint him as a victim now to assuage your guilt, or because thats what you see when you look at him; he's earned far more than that."

John's chair scrapes loudly, abruptly as he shoots to his feet with his fists knotted. He isn't blank anymore. Malevolence is a shadow behind his eyes and ticks of shifting muscle at his jaw. His eyes don't waver from hers, so it's impossible to know if he's aware of her right hand settling on her thigh, perilously close to the holster of her weapon. He turns away rather than advancing, exiting the room with a slam of the door into the wall outside. She can hear the shattering of the plaster and the raining chunks of it that clatter to the floor before the portal rebounds closed.

There's no satisfaction in having cut back at him the way she'd warned. All Beckett feels is tired, impossibly drained.

It was easier than expected, as she'd said. The brass looks more at closure percentages than they do at the cases themselves. CompStat tabulates every recorded detail for all to see, but it still takes someone willing to sift through the raw data in order to find a pattern. Who would be looking for a homicide team taking the less gruesome or senseless murder cases? Who would care even if they did notice? The cases they took were solved, bar none. There's nothing to complain about, no cause for that kind of scrutiny. No, it wasn't logistically infeasible to keep Castle away from certain exposures; the impossible part was always the idea of talking about it, even after it seemed like a superfluous measure.

Now that she's discussed it aloud like this, Kate's all but convinced that Castle is, and probably has been, aware of the machinations taking place. That isn't a outlandish idea. If he can deduce patterns of criminal behavior, he would be able to discern what was going on with the NYPD right under his nose. Not a shocking thought, no, but Kate does feel foolish.

She should have had the conversation with him from the start, and she might have done so if she'd known he wasn't the man-child he feigned all too well to be. How could any of them have guessed the truth? One brightly burning imagination and an empathy disorder is far from an indication of the kind of past she's becoming acquainted with. Dr. Holloway had cited brain chemistry and an overabundance of mirror neurons as the underlying causality. Simple. Biological. Couple that with his egocentric behavior and there was never a reason to suspect a traumatic origin.

Being wrong for taking someone else's word on it isn't the same as complicit. Isn't that true? Or was the truth as visible as the rest of it to someone willing to look? Did she not see, or not want to see? _Jesus Christ, Rick. You're killing me here._

Beckett is keenly aware of the cell phone sitting close by upon the table. It isn't a conversation she wants to have that way though. He could hide from her, and even if he didn't, she probably would from him. They're on more level ground face-to-face, so let it happen that way, later. _It's a date._

Right now, there's a dark ocean waiting to be swam through. She stands and reaches for one of the boxes nearby instead of the phone, pulls the lid off the first of the four. The scent of old paper wafts up stronger than before. The olfactory data kindles a generally familiar sensation in her. Given the wealth of paperwork she deals with and what her parents often sifted through at home, it's almost comforting in a way, like the company of an old friend.

A lonely loose photograph is waiting right there on top of the accordion-style files stacked within.

It might as well be an image of the gates of Dante's lamented Inferno, with all the multifariousness of human suffering depicted in its varying grounds of perspective. _Abandon all hope, ye who enter here._

Beckett sees the photo, and for an indeterminable span she can't move or even breathe. There's no memory of sitting again, only the dimly noted sensation of impact after she drops like a stone into her chair.

And here it all comes, everything so carefully imprisoned from way back then up to right now, like a dam straining its seams to a final, furious burst unto liberation. Her eyes close tight and her hands lift to bury herself in them, but that cannot contain the hot, calamitous flow behind them.

It's a picture of an achingly young Richard Rodgers, hauntingly expressionless, blue eyes vacant, with his pale face and youthfully skinny form covered head to toe in blood.


	11. A Long Dark Plunge

**A/N** : So...this chapter is one of the more horrible things I've written for this site over the years. I've edited it for content as much as the spirit of such a tale allows and upped the rating just to be safe. There's worse out there, I'm sure. Most of you guys will probably be rolling your eyes about this word of warning by the end. I'd prefer that be the case. But the warning will be made regardless: Please proceed with caution as to your individual tolerances of violence.

* * *

Beckett wakes to find herself still sitting at the table with her forehead pillowed upon her arms. There's no memory of having sought rest. In the initial disorientation, and with her last cogent thought on Dante, a bizarre thought arises of having perished while staring at the picture of Castle. In a twisted mockery of Narcissus at the waters edge, she must have gazed, horrified, until she wasted away. Then, summarily doomed by a wrathful St. Peter for such a slothful manner of an exit, she'd been allotted a special abode in Hell where every awakening from now would deliver her unto this room to repeat this string of tormenting conversations.

Her eyes discern the glowing tips on the hands of her father's watch: 8:44 PM.

The touch at her left shoulder which roused her comes again and brings the detective's head up from the gloom of her pooled hair and crossed limbs. John's face greets her. There's no anger or lingering resentment present. All she sees is the subtle occupancy of compassion. _I must look about as good as I feel then._ Mild stiffness of the skin suggests dried tracks of tear-streaked mascara upon her cheeks. As she moves, numbness in her blood-deprived limbs gives way to tingling pins and needles in her legs and feet. Kate watches in the grip of a mild lassitude as her companion reaches out tentatively and slides the photograph of a bloody boy carefully free of her fingers where it had remained even while she'd slumbered.

"That," John sympathizes quietly, "was one hell of a place to start digging, Kate."

It's lain aside facing down, but the image has been indelibly seared into her brain.

 _Remember what Rick said. This isn't him. It was, but it's not now. It's just a part of the whole.  
_

She has a sense now of what's led the families and other people involved to bury this case as much as they could. Name a dollar amount, or the favor necessary—almost anything would be doable if Kate could close her eyes for one more moment and open them to discover herself back at Rick's place. Let her wake up to find both of them still settled peacefully on his back deck under the light of the gibbous moon with distant waves rolling in.

 _Where did all of that need to know vanish to?_ Within her mind the question comes in her own voice in a tone of biting sarcasm, even disdain. It's well-placed. There simply isn't enough room to manage any shame for herself.

That picture is too big. It's filled her up. All else has been washed out of her by its mammoth displacement.

"You were only out for fifteen minutes," the Sergeant informs her. A fresh mug of coffee wafting steam is set in front of her before he reclaims the chair across the table. The scent of the offering is sharply nauseating, but, mercifully, only briefly. Even when the roiling passes she doesn't touch it, but watches silently as John reaches to his left for an inch-thick stack of documents and draws them into place before himself. He's been busy.

 _Last chance to run, Katie._

She doesn't even twitch.

The other notices her observing and looks away to the side at the replaced boxes and filing cabinets on which they rest. "It seems unlikely, doesn't it? That so much misery can be reduced to this small pile." He doesn't seem to expect a reply when he pauses, and continues moments later. "It's more for my purposes on certain points. As for that, I was still gathering my thoughts when you awoke. Why don't you step out and get cleaned up while I finish?"

"Thanks," she says, more rasps, and gingerly clears her throat. "But I'll clean up later. I need this done."

A short delay passes, but she doesn't lift her gaze from the table in order to meet his assessment. Finally, her companion selects a glossy page from the top of the stack before him, another photograph. He handles it with an odd minimalism, two fingers grasping only what is required at one corner. It drops to lie between them and John shakes his hand afterward with the discard someone might apply to having handled something dead and rotting.

It's a black-and-white five-by-seven of a man in his middle twenties.

There is the moment of seeing and comprehending, and in its wake follows another in which the coffee, Sergeant, and cabinets all phase out of immediate awareness. A strange pressure exerts itself upon the air that robs it of both scent and sound. Every peripheral detail seems to deliquesce even while the figure in the photograph grows more corporeal and clear. Kate's breath comes at the same cadence, but shallower.

The last thing she expects to happen now is to experience the same moment she yearns for at the twelfth when she's perched upon a desk and leaning unconsciously towards the murder board, waiting for it to whisper to her. The penultimate moment comes regardless of expectation, and with it a familiar sense of detachment from self. A mental withdrawal carries her backwards and upwards until the picture, table, and the room itself are seen as a whole.

Fevers grip people in such a manner, but Kate doesn't feel warm. Indeed, it feels as though she grows as cold as the reptile from whence Castle gleaned her nickname. She's the alligator upon a river bank poised in flawless patience, as motionless as the mud, stiller than the reeds stirring listlessly in a humid breeze. Emotion gradually wanes even as mental acuity sharpens to a lethal edge. The drumming of her heart is slow, now slower. It winds on down as sure as hands of her father's watch that tick, tick, tick in lengthening intervals until each measure is as distinct and protracted as the mournful tolling of a grandfather clock: solemn, thrumming, metallic.

Slowly, almost cautiously, Beckett reaches out with both hands and slides the image closer.

 _You're the one, aren't you? The architect of all of this pain._

It's obvious at first glance that the shot was professionally done. Someone with real talent and all the right equipment did the job. The subject, wearing a white shirt open at the neck and a leather jacket, was captured from the waist up, posed within a white wooden door frame with his arms folded across his chest. His aristocratic features are undeniably handsome, bolstered by piercing eyes, a firm set to his mouth, and thick dark hair combed back from the forehead.

The photo was clearly intended to be glamorous, but that's fitting. A natural mystique exudes from the figure that the artist didn't need to create artificially. As for that, it's a dramatic, exacting composition of shadow and light with a definite lean on the former. An oddness to their shapes and prevalence implies the use of obstructions not visible in frame. It's starkly effective. Darkness adores the man. An equally undeniable arrogance is present and that's apparent in both posture and expression. It harkens to a deigned superiority that Kate's seen staring back at her during a thousand interrogations. That too is decidedly fitting in this instance. As a lion must walk the plains of the dark continent with its head high and regal to be seen as a lion, so would such a man as this need to carry himself in order to be seen for what he presumes to be among other men. Better. Vaunted. Above the reach of mortal laws.

"That's him," John begins, and she startles inwardly at the sound of his voice. "Llewellyn Matthews." Beckett looks up to accept the connection of the others' gaze, but doesn't reply. "This ended here with the victims who came to be collectively known as the Montauk Five." By his tone it's clear that such a designation is held with more than mere disdain; caged hostility rattles the bars of that tenor. "But it began across Block Island Sound almost a decade earlier in the city of New London."

"He hunted across state lines," the detective comments while sliding the picture away. "Smart."

"Matthews had a few clever ideas that kept him off suspect lists, a fairly sophisticated hunting behavior for the time, but like many serial killers he wasn't exceptionally bright. In that respect he was average. New London was where he was born and raised; it was his comfort zone. Montauk was too, but his victim type was fairly specific and easier access to it was only a half-hour boat ride from our local marina." Her fellow pauses again and she starts to inject a question, but stops when he looks down and away again. "He was, uh, an exceptionally brutal killer, Kate."

A different question emerges instead. "A sadist?"

"I believe so, yes. Others claim he isn't. Rather, that he's not in the classical definition of the term. Matthews believes pain holds the key to some kind of metamorphosis. He suffered his share of it, you see. There are crackpots who claim he was driven by feelings of intense isolation—that he tortured women because he was looking for someone who, like him, would emerge from the process transformed and prove worthy of his love."

"Jesus..."

"It's bullshit. No one survived his process. No one could've. Those same crack-pots claim that's just another part of the psychosis. While he wanted a companion, part of him knew that no one could fill his inner void. So by killing his victims he ensured no one would disappoint him or disprove his demented process of selection. It's that kind of lame, cyclical reasoning that got him institutionalized rather than locked up in a Supermax where he belongs."

"That's where he wound up then? A hospital?"

"Yes. He was admitted shortly after his arrest and diagnosed as a potently violent Schizophrenic. It was almost seven years before the doctors were satisfied that he was mentally competent enough to face back-to-back trials in Connecticut and New York. Didn't matter though. He was not-guilty by reason of insanity both times and sent right back to the hospital. Hell, they're probably right if I'm being honest. I don't like to think so, but the insanity defense is so sparingly used and even more rarely conceded at trial. You have to figure there's something legitimate to the notion when that happens."

"The actual scenario must've been different then. He wouldn't have gotten off as some twisted Casanova. That's messed up, but it doesn't preclude an awareness of right and wrong when he committed the crimes."

"Schizophrenia is the diagnosis, but the actual delusions driving him were different than what the crack-pots claim, yeah. Matthews' doesn't see his victims as people." Beckett's head ticks backward upon her neck in bemusement. She lingers in silence. "They were objects. What we see as their suffering was, to him, and these are his words, 'a cleansing of chemical imperfections to render workable materials'. That's how he sees us: chemical stews of base action and reaction. Pain, being a universal function across all animal kingdoms, was deemed the purest mechanism by which he might drain the impurities of humanity. He kept most of his victims alive for quite some time. Afterwards...he posed the bodies together in a tableau in a large natural cavern that was discovered beneath the barn on his property. The offering: that's what he called it, and that was his true obsession. As to whom the sacrifices were made, or to what end, he's never said."

It takes a moment to digest that heaping spoonful of cold horror. Finally, Kate says, "Tell me about the victimology."

"Invariably female, but the ages varied. The youngest was in her late twenties, the eldest in her fifties. As far as physical traits or race, he wasn't choosy. Another reason he was so difficult to find."

"I thought the youngest was..." She can't bring herself to finish it.

"Laura, yeah. But the Montauk victims were different from the rest. Matthews' acknowledged as much."

"Different how?"

"That's skipping ahead a ways."

Part of her is glad to let the matter wait. _Dodging won't work much longer, Katie._ She knows, but still allows the deviation. "You said beforehand that his preferences were specific, but that's a lot of wiggle room compared to some serials."

"Yes, well, the women varied some, but all of them were homeless and each was determined to be a long-time alcohol abuser. Even the youngest victim had been drinking for over ten years."

Beckett frowns. "Okay... Well, hunting the homeless makes a sick kind of sense. High risk peoples can vanish without so much as a missing person report. The communities they form don't have the best relationships with the law."

"As I said, it was one more detail that made this investigation the cock-up it was. There was no case, not for years. There might never have been, except there was a priest who became involved, Father Daniel Kirkland. He slowly caught on to the women disappearing. Matthews' cooling off period was like clockwork. He hunted every four months for eight years. While the span between them was significant, it wasn't long enough to go without notice to someone who was paying attention."

"Holy shit," Beckett says softly. "Llewellyn killed _twenty-four_ women?"

"That's not including the victims in Montauk. Even when it finally was noticed in late '72, Father Kirkland waged a long uphill battle getting anyone to do anything about it. This occurred while deinstitutionalization was the grand new social agenda. Politicians had made a big fuss about emptying mental hospitals in the name of compassion and social responsibility. We know now how well that worked out, about as well as anything does when science and government converge on some notion of a greater good. The murders, excuse me, the multiple missing person cases as they were thought to be at the time, came to light not long before the second major wave of releases. No one wanted to acknowledge a situation that painted their great movement with unnecessary bad press."

"Imagine that."

"Mm. The irony is none of the victims were releases from any of the state hospitals. Being homeless was close enough apparently. Anyway, being a priest, Kirkland had access to an audience every Sunday who were more concerned with their immortal souls than securing a popular vote. Word slowly spread. In early '74 they organized a march. Over six hundred homeless took part in it. I don't imagine that was easy for anyone to ignore," John adds with a subtle wrinkling of his nose, but no real humor is apparent. "It had the desired effect, that's for sure."

Beckett digests the information for a time, then asks, "Why did he want alcoholics?"

John swallows and turns his coffee mug slowly within his hands, three complete revolutions. _Shit. This isn't gonna be good._ "Remember," he finally begins, "in Matthews' sick mind the ultimate purifier was pain."

The detective doesn't remember shooting to her feet. She only realizes it happening when her chair smacks hard against the floor behind her. "No, damn," she issues and paces away to far wall, resting a hand against its cool surface. Her father swims to the surface of her mind, unbidden. "He cut them off. Induced DT's."

John sighs behind and beyond her. "Delirium tremens are no joke, as you seem to be aware. Even today people sometimes die from the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal, and that's with aggressive clinical treatment. Without it? The physiological and psychological side-effects are, in a word, devastating. That coupled with prolonged torture..."

Beckett squeezes her eyes shut around the conjured images. She feels about an inch tall. What does she know of Hell compared to something like that? _Don't compare pain, Katie. Comprehend theirs, mourn it with them, respect it. And always, if possible, help conquer it._ That was what her mother used to offer by way of wisdom on the subject.

But there's no one left to mourn or heal with this time, just the ghosts locked away in this small room.

 _Now you are being foolish. Of course there is._

"Castle."

John hears the name even at a whisper. He clears his throat roughly, asks, "Are you ready for that part?"

She's not, but Rick wasn't either when this nightmare happened upon him. Beckett goes back to the table, righting her chair. She eases down into it, runs a thumb under both eyes even though she's already a mess, and focuses on her guide.

John dallies briefly with a sip of coffee. She's not the only sorely reluctant party.

That reminds Kate of something she's been meaning to say. "You know, when Castle told me I was coming here with you, I wasn't thrilled. I knew this was going to be difficult to hear, and the only one I wanted to share it with was him. He told me that the case was, you know, personal for you. Painful. He didn't explain how true that is, only enough to get the point across." John is staring unblinkingly at her, frowning, his jaw set. "Even with that hint, I kept thinking about how your being here would effect _me_." Realization creeps into the upturned formation of his eyebrows and a slight part of his lips. She continues on determinedly, because later she might not think to say this, and it matters to her. "I'm sorry, John. And...thanks for being here, doing this. You, uh, you're a great friend."

Oh god, he's teetering badly by then, emotions strained like a cable trembling past its load bearing capacity.

"Don't you dare," Beckett croaks with her eyes welling dangerously in pure sympathy. John sucks in a fast, shaky breath and expels a humorless breath of a laugh. Somehow, some-goddamned-how, the man holds all the jagged pieces of himself together and slowly cements the seams of his grief with hard-fought neutrality. His eyes clear and he nods a couple times in the only response he seems able to give. Minutes pass before she manages the same.

"I assume by now you've heard Richard play?"

She looks to the side at the overturned picture of Castle, and then back to target. "Play...?"

"No," her companion confirms to himself and nods. "That's not surprising. He's a pianist. Was. "

"Seriously?"

"Very. We're not talking about the next Beethoven or anything. The gifts he possesses have their limits just like with anyone else. Um, he doesn't qualify as having absolute pitch, but he's placeable upon that gradient in that he can recreate a piece by ear, identify specific tones in songs with multiple instruments, and identify the pitch of everyday sounds."

"Did he study it seriously?"

"He had a teacher here in Montauk, some German guy who I can't recall now. Martha wasn't very strict about it though. When he sent Richard home in tears one day, she canceled the lessons and took over the tutelage. She's not half bad herself, you know. Still, I think she thought it was more of a quirky proficiency than anything serious."

"You believed it was more?"

"At the time I didn't know shit. Like his imagination and empathy though, it _is_ more. Wherever Richard truly applies himself to a creative endeavor it is going to broadcast a potential for greatness. It all emerges from the same deep wellspring after all. But...he only started playing when he was five. His babysitter turned him onto the instrument that year. As you're already aware, he didn't have long before this case overtook him. I'm not bringing it up now to draw more attention to how the aftermath effected him. I mention it because, in this case, its sadly relevant to why he was...chosen."

"Llewellyn went after him because of his music?"

"Such as it was at the time, yes."

"His...budding talent for it then."

"Either way is fine, Kate, really. I've heard him play, so to me it's more than mere proficiency."

"How did Llewellyn know about it? And why was it so important?"

"Once again we've run up against something I don't know how to make sense of for you. In this case, however, we have Matthews himself to explain it for us." John thumbs through the stack before him for less than a minute before producing a few pages stapled together. He turns to the second page and begins reading aloud from it. "I heard it happening down on the first floor. It was more white noise at first, and I was not concerned. Later, when I came back by through the food court, there was a small herd gathered around a nearby dais where the piano sat." _Herd? God almighty..._ "By then it was producing music, and I was struck by the quality of its playing."

" _It_ ," she quotes angrily, aloud this time. "Is he referring to Castle?"

"Yes. Like the other victims, he didn't see Richard as a person."

Beckett seethes quietly and gestures for him to keep going.

John's attention lingers on her though. "He goes on to describe the fact that Richard wasn't playing sheet music, but rather putting sounds to the manner in which passing people or those standing and watching nearby inspired. He got a feeling for them and just played for a while. That's corroborated, more or less, by people who were at the mall that day. Once he realized what was happening, Matthews' curiosity got the better of him and he joined the other observers. While he was watching, Richard saw him as well and...reacted."

The Sergeant's focus lowers to the page again, scanning through it before he starts reading again. "The sounds that began to emerge from the instrument were only clear to me. I heard the underlying melody, a message of hope from my great benefactor reaching out to me at long last, and was moved by it. The herd, stupefied and unknowing, frowned at each other while the discordant cacophony they could only perceive the notes as unfurled. They began to drift away, first one-by-one and then as a group. But it kept playing, staring back at me with wide unknowing eyes and its face locked in a rictus mask of distress. It was as helpless to cease as any messenger from a divine source would be. Even when the small litter with it became restless and eager to abandon the pursuit, it played on." The Sergeant pauses to look up at her. "He was talking about me and the girls. We'd gone together that day with the twins' mother, Anita. I don't recall this myself, and in this case Genie doesn't either. That was three weeks before...the end."

Beckett moistens her lips and tentatively begins, "John, no kids could be expected to—

"I know," he interjects softly. "Thanks for saying so. Knowing better doesn't make it okay." He clears his throat and lets the pages settle on the table beside the larger stack. "By that time New London's finest had active on the case for over a year. It may have taken unnecessary means to make that happen, but once they were rolling the city was after their suspect with a will. They even managed to procure some FBI assistance in the form of an agent from their fledgling behavioral science unit, a rising star named...uh, I forget actually. He was part of that tragedy up in Boston in early '05, with the bomber. Anyway, none of the presumed missing persons had turned up, so he suspected homicides. He found the connection between the victims, so they knew their suspect was targeting alcoholics, though not why, and they knew their killer was taking homeless from the neighborhood around the church where Kirkland lived and worked."

"Did Llewellyn know they were closing in?"

"Closing in isn't the term I would use. They were too late. I'm hard-pressed to justify holding the failure against them. I do though, in the face of reason. As for Matthews' reaction to them, it's unclear. He gleaned a 'message of hope' from Richard's music, and it's tempting to associate that to the growing adversity he was up against with law enforcement. But he never confirmed as much. On the contrary, Matthews has never expressed any interest in how he was caught or what any of us think of him. After eight long years of killing it's possible he was growing despondent or frustrated with his...work. If the doctor's are right about him being insane, maybe his illness was deepening or diverging into something else. There's just no way of knowing for certain. All we have in the wake of it all is the behavior. That is, what he decided to do next."

"The killings in Montauk. Castle."

John turned the mug in his hands again, idling while his dark eyes travel the room searchingly. "There are parts of this I'm going to explain for you, but before that happens, let me warn you: there are holes in the narrative. One in particular."

"Castle mentioned that too—that there are parts even he doesn't recall."

"Yeah." John lifts his mug, but its empty. With a moistening of his lips he sets the item aside with an exaggerated care which speaks plainly of renewed tension within. "It gets somewhat complicated from here on in."

 _Complicated. That's how Castle described it on the ride out here._

"Hasn't it been?" Beckett returns mildly.

"It's been disgusting, disturbing. But from point A to B the case has comparable symmetry with other killers."

She frowns deeply, not understanding and definitely not liking this.

John intrudes on her thoughts by continuing, "Matthews got it in his head that Richard, while no more of a person than any other victim, was unique in at least one way. He saw the music as a, uh, conduit of sorts by which to convey his Offering, his dark prayer, or...whatever the fuck it was...to whomever he was trying to reach. Do you see? He thought Richard had a direct line to his so-called benefactor. And he wanted to answer back." Beckett doesn't shiver, but not from a lack of frost crystallizing at her core. "That's why he took him from his house on the night of July 18th, 1975."

Silence settles in like a shed autumn mantle. John gives her a minute. Or maybe he's the one who needs it.

"A missing kid raises quite a clamor. Mind you, what was happening across the sound had been kept so quiet no one knew to attribute one act to the other. Even if it had been front-page news I don't know that it would've changed things. The torture for us now is not knowing. It might have. Right up until we finally found Richard, we all thought it was something normal. He'd fallen down while playing somewhere, or gotten lost in a patch of woods—there's plenty of it out here. Benign or not, he and Martha were more than just summer fixtures in Montauk. Word spread like wildfire. He and I were as good as brothers, and my father responded to the situation the same way I imagine he would if I had been the one missing. Obviously, family isn't the textbook choice to spearhead situations like that. Small town rules though."

"Maybe they aren't," Beckett issues quietly, firmly, "but we do what we must for family."

"Exactly, yes." John pauses briefly, considering privately. "That's what was happening in town. But Matthews' farm was four miles away from all of that, tucked out in the woods past the airport on the east edge of Big Reed pond. The three week delay between the mall and the kidnapping was how long it took for Matthews to secure the delivery of a grand piano out there and get it moved down into the cave where he kept his cursed tableau."

"Oh fuck," Kate expels in a rush, but immediately waves for John to keep going.

He gets it. Thank God he gets it. They can't stop or divert again. Not at this point. "Yeah, it was center stage down there, and it's where he kept Richard throughout the duration of all of this. As you can imagine, no boy in those circumstances could have quelled his fear enough to play music. That's what brought the killer back into town. He grabbed the first woman that could be quietly isolated and overpowered: Melinda Crane, a twenty-eight year-old schoolteacher. He took her back to the cavern. One of the many strange details about Matthews is the lack of fundamental comprehension of interpersonal relationships. He literally can't perceive families or couples or the like. Even when he's shown images of them hugging, playing, kissing...it just doesn't compute. But he does grasp that we have such relationships, and that many of us value them above almost everything else."

"I see where this is going. He thought he could force Richard to play because he expected there to be attachment between him and some random woman. She was goddamn leverage. So, what, when it didn't work he kept going out and grabbing others until it did?"

"It's...not quite so simple."

 _Shit. It's worse. That's what you mean._

"He didn't understand that a little boy could simply be too afraid."

When John pauses she shakes her head once in lingering confusion.

The other sighs mutely. "He thought Richard...wasn't inspired."

"Oh fuck," Kate blurts again, rising from the table. "Jesus fucking Christ almighty. Don't tell me he—

"He did the same work he'd always done. Though without the benefit of delirium tremens he was obliged to apply some previously unnecessary creativity in arousing pain." _Oh shit. Shit, shit shit!_ "LSD and various barbiturates were used to induce hallucinations in place of alcohol withdrawal." Kate lowers into a crouch as if the words and the imagery they bore were chains being lashed across her form and pulled taut to drag her down. "It kept...not working, so he went out for another one again, and again, and again."

"S-stop. Just stop a second."

"The estimation is that they were all alive in there together over the following thirty-six hours."

Tears scald her eyes, blurring the sight of the world. "John, please..."

"He pinned our beautiful girls into the tableau while they were still breathing, alongside twenty-four rotten corpses. He arranged them just so by driving slender spikes of rebar through their legs and down into the floor. He threaded steel wire through muscle and fat, arms and torsos, and tied it off to beams in the ceilings and walls. Like they were praying—that's how they looked. Like so many torn petitioners. I can't even imagine the sound of them all reverberating off the stone."

Beckett whirls on him, screaming, " _Shut your fucking mouth!_ "

The Sergeant's eyes are so wide and wet, gaping and glassy. He might as well be looking at her from a completely different world. "He'd seen Laura at the mall with Richard, and she'd taken her bike around the block to help look for her friend. Not far. Is it dumb luck he showed up there? Nobody knows. Nobody knows," he repeats like a broken record, almost a whisper. "I think...maybe Richard called out for her, for the one he needed most, you know? He couldn't have known the danger. He must've been delirious by then, right? Catatonic maybe."

Beckett might have drawn her weapon to shut him up, but a series of hard spasms rock her shoulders as she gags.

 _He was too aware for his age. He understood what was happening._

"What happened from there...we don't know. There's a transcript. In it, Richard describes killing Matthews. He says he had to do it to save them. He describes cutting their captor's throat with three deep slashes with a piece of shale."

Beckett stills. She lifts her head with an effort to look back at John. _  
_

"But Matthews lived. He lived. That's how _Laura_ died."

Out it comes now in a horrid expulsion, dinner, lunch, or whatever combination between. Kate almost chokes amidst the violence of the sudden purge. She can't see, can't breathe, and the dry heaves won't _stop_.

"We don't know...who did it. We believe in Richard, always will, but we don't _know_. Nobody knows, not even him."

The silence that falls is broken only by her own wretched sounds of misery. The story, for John's part at least, is over.


	12. Tethers of Belief

They won't stop. Like a wound seeping blood, just when her reflection in the mirror seems to coagulate into hard-won control, a gleam gathers and another droplet of liquid grief escapes the corner of an earthy-hued eye. It cannot be helped. The detective has grown almost numb to them. When it happens again presently, she dismisses the matter as a lost cause. One doesn't shake their fists at the clouds with any expectation of commanding the cessation of a downpour.

The rain stops when its good and ready to.

Otherwise, Beckett has cleaned up as well as can be expected given the tools at hand in a public restroom. The light layer of her makeup, smudged or otherwise, has been washed away. Somehow she managed to lose her dinner without ending up wearing any of it. Minus some redness in and around her eyes, it would be easy to mistake her for the woman who left the beach house a couple hours ago in better shape and spirits.

The mental comparison summons an image of the author waiting for her there. It's so clear a picture that a kaleidoscope of butterflies takes flight and spirals in her still sensitive belly. _I know why you stayed. Most of me is glad you did. But I need you now._ That only leads to a renewed clamp of her hands on the porcelain edges of the sink. Kate glances down at the whiteness of her knuckles, the veins in her wrists, and the taut muscles in either forearm. A few calming breaths later she's able to let go. She steps back from the sink and exits the restroom.

John is waiting in the wide hallway, arms crossed, standing at a lean with his back against the wall.

The security guard on duty in the building is also hovering nearby. Calvin Something. He was lured out by seemingly genuine concern and helped John clean up the mess in the office suite. Kate assisted too, some, but ultimately deferred with mute gratitude when they suggested she tend to herself instead.

"Feeling better?" the guy asks. He emerged for what may have been good reasons, but he might as well be wearing a neon sign declaring having lingered for the wrong ones, namely a decreased proximity to her. To his credit, the lack of wandering eyes suggests it isn't so inappropriate a motive as lust. No, he merely wants to be heroic. Some guys can't seem to help themselves in these situations, as if its hardwired into their DNA to puff up and steel themselves in the face of a woman's tears, like there's saving that needs to be done. Any other night Kate might be sympathetic to the male condition.

Not this one. _It isn't me who needs saving._

"I think we've got it from here, Cal," John issues, stepping pointedly between him and Kate as he offers the former a handshake. His height and breadth completely obscure the other from view. "Thanks."

"Sure, Sarge. It's no problem." Still he lingers, leaning a bit to look past John's right shoulder and offer a wan smile to Beckett. She stares back impassively. "Just, uh, lemme know if you guys need anything else."

"We'll do that," the Sergeant replies evenly. After the other man turns and reluctantly leaves John faces her with a thin snarl of dislike in the swift process of coming and going from his lips.

The woman empathizes with the sentiment, but her disapproval goes well beyond one too-eager custodian of the Assessor's Office. It encompasses the man still before her too. She's hiding that well, must be, because John views her with more openness in his posture than he's borne thus far. It's subtle enough that he probably isn't aware of revealing it. The sight pisses her off to behold. _You think—what? That we've bonded over this case tonight? You couldn't be more fucking wrong._ Kate tamps her emotions down. Again. In the grip of a deceptive calm, she says, "I need a little more time in there. Alone," she adds, expecting that stipulation to herald the beginning of a pitched battle of wills.

John frowns immediately, shifting the set of the wide belt around his waist in discomfort. He surprises her by nodding in the middle of the critical assessment of his gaze on hers. He doesn't even bother repeating the previous warnings about the case files and its contents staying in that room where they belong. Kate is already appropriately intimidated on that front, as any sane person would be. She has no intention of testing Montauk's hospitality anymore than is absolutely necessary.

They walk down the hallway together without another word. The soft squeak of the Sergeant's polished boots upon the floor is the only sound between the two of them. Kate can sense her fellow's willingness, perhaps even eagerness to talk. Part of her laments not being able to indulge him. The people of this town have carried this case for a long time. They will continue to long after her and Rick return to the city. For the detective, John is the face ascribed to all of that teeming uncertainty. Natural instinct demands bearing witness to fellow victims of loss. It doesn't feel right to force that aside.

 _I'm sorry. I really am, but I can't help you._

Truthfully, Beckett probably could. But she won't. That unwillingness is not sired by maliciousness. It's triage medicine. She's chosen who needs her more. Tonight her only intended patient is Richard Castle.

John opens the door with his key and Kate presses it wide.

The officer's heavy right hand lifts to her left forearm before she can step inside. Bemusement touches the corners of his bristle-encompassed mouth. Somewhere within the depths of those dark brown eyes is slowly budding suspicion that she's found something he has not. Beckett places one of her hands over his before he can process the situation enough to become convinced. Gently, but firmly, she pries him loose without even blinking. The door closes between them with his face still frozen in the formation of questions he hasn't quite put into words within his own mind.

She hesitates for an instant afterward, blinking at the otherwise vacant office without actually seeing it. The reality of those cabinets and boxes standing across the room slowly hardens her resolve and layers it with an icy coating.

 _You've all had your chance to see. Decades, in fact. Time's up._

The files are well-organized. It only takes another hour to find what she's looking for. Kate reads the reports and studies the images carefully, drilling them into memory, because they can't come with her. The truly heinous nature of it all is far more likely to make forgetting the difficult part. She only cries two more times during the process, but it's quieter and briefer in both cases. Neither elicits embarrassment or shame. The day she ceases being affected she'll be ashamed.

Everything is replaced as it was found. No backwards glance is given before she leaves, only a brief pause to rest her back against the door for a moment on the other side. Her companion is waiting right where she left him, curious and perhaps a mite bit put-out. Without meeting his gaze she strides down the hallway to get the hell out of this place.

"Headed out then?" Calvin asks, rising as they pass. She doesn't stop. "Uh, okay. Well, take care."

John offers a grim, "Thanks. G'night, Cal."

Night has fallen outside. Trees and hedgerows skirting the building emit their restless susurration as the pair advance to John's truck. Coolness is ushered along by intermittent gusts, a welcome difference from the artificial chill inside. Even in the more populated downtown, East Hampton it is already growing quiet. Traffic is light and many of the businesses and residences lining the roadsides are dark. Local restaurants and bars will cater to the evening crowd for some time yet.

"So, when exactly was I cut out of the loop?"

Beckett glances up at the question, but the other's focus remains on the road. His tone isn't petulant or even unkind exactly. Actually, he sounds more disappointed than anything. They agreed to play it straight with one another earlier, so she doesn't lie to him. "There is no loop, John. Never was. Just a line, and it runs between me and Castle."

"That's interesting," he replies at length, glancing out the driver's side window. "What you said earlier—I thought you understood that this case goes beyond any one of us. We all share the pain here."

"That's the damn truth," she grits, seething with accusation, unable to help herself.

It earns a pair of minimally arched eyebrows and a small, puzzled frown. "What the hell does that mean?"

Beckett turns, fixing him with her gaze and withdrawing slowly and completely behind the mask. "It means...I'm tired. My head is swimming in a sea of blood and guts and I'm an emotional wreck. It sucks, and it sucks to admit, but there you have it. I'm not up for hashing out anything else right now."

Sergeant Autry doesn't relinquish the tapered frown at his mouth, but there isn't any wiggle room in the statement for continuing the discussion. They drive on into the unlit wilderness beyond the lights of the hamlet with only silence between them.

The reduced speed as they get closer to the beach house is noticeable. Beckett doesn't comment on the delay tactic, which is, after all, specifically intended to loosen her lips. His options are admittedly limited, but as a renowned interrogator she's a bit disappointed with the fumbling attempt at coercion. _Who do you think you're playing with here?_ Progress is inevitable. Soon enough Kate sees the dark ship of the sprawling home on the right with its beacons of lamplight aglow upon a sea of black. It was beautiful last night too. Haunting. It didn't convey loneliness until now.

Castle is standing under the central arch of the front veranda, almost exactly where they left him a few hours ago. The sight of him in the wash of the F-150's headlights elicits...too much to sort through. No more tears though. Beckett is opening the passenger door even before the truck comes to a complete stop in the driveway.

"Kate," John tries one more time. He's not a bad man. "Detective!"

Beckett closes the door behind her, aware from the tingling in her cheeks that the blood has drained from them to leave her with a pallor of similarly mixed and gnawing emotion. Castle steps out from under the porch, lifts a hand in a gesture of greeting or parting to the Sergeant. The truck leaves with a tearing of the tires into the loose gravel in as clear an expression of frustration as any. She turns at the waist, watching the taillights glare red at the top of the drive before swishing left with a bark of rubber against the road. They dwindle fast.

All too quickly it's just her and her shadow. She turns slowly, facing him with her fingers curled at her sides.

"You didn't tell him," Castle says. It isn't a question.

"Tell him what?" she fires back, her voice tight.

He doesn't wilt under the force of her glare. On the contrary, the author diminishes the distance between them almost to nothing. The step she takes back from him is purely involuntary. Old habit, obsolete defenses. It couldn't have been timed any worse from the way his expression flashes an instant of alarm, and then shuts down immediately and completely. Any other time that might not strike her as a big deal. Tonight, too many or too significant a misstep could easily be their last.

"No," Kate blurts, snatching at the sleeves of his t-shirt when he begins a mirroring step back. "No. Don't do that. I'm sorry." He smiles just slightly in reply, the same way he's done who knows how many times before, precisely the way he did before their moment in the precinct and this resulting weekend. He's gone from her as easy as that, might as well be standing a mile away. It's shocking how fragile his willingness to trust is. The wrong word spoken at misplaced volume is capable of shattering it. "Look at me, Castle. I'm here, right? I came back."

"Why?"

It takes several seconds to find her breath again after the cold, blunt edge of the word strikes her. "You don't need to do that. How did we get here—right here where we're standing now? It wasn't by hiding."

With their positions reversed in the driveway he's visible in the lamplight. The tone of the question he offers in reply is deceptive, almost pleasant, but in the mildness of the late-spring night a piercing glimpse of departed winter skies stares back at her, "Is that what you qualify this evening as for my part? Hiding?"

"No," Beckett answers hastily, wincing, "of course not. I'm only asking you to bear with me. This is all still very new. Even on my better days I get this stuff hopelessly tangled along the way to communicating it properly."

A blessed note of reconsideration lightly drapes the words. "This 'stuff'?"

"Yeah. Y'know, heart stuff." He doesn't smile, which implies the seriousness of the message survived a clumsy wording.

The other circles her where she stands, front to back to front again until he's paused at her left and looking away. It began slightly unnerving for the imposition of his looming height, but by the end it's clear that a long luxuriation of closeness is the intent, not intimidation.

Why he didn't simply reach out and touch her she will never know, and the painful question to follow it will always be: _why didn't I?_

"I don't believe I...did what they think I did, Kate."

"Oh, babe," she sighs miserably, "I know you didn't."

He nods once with the end of the gesture finding his gaze on the ground between them. That knowledge would be news to John most likely, who seemed to think her upset aimed at the implication of her partner having killed Laura. It was deeply upsetting, but not because she considered it likely. It's absurd. What killed her, drove her to a sudden disgust so great as to dislodge her dinner, was _how_ John spoke of it: full of doubt and fear. It's bad enough Rick went through what he did as young as he was, but to survive all of that and then fall under such a sick cloud of suspicion after the fact?

"Why doesn't everyone else though? I can't wrap my head around it." Kate faces him more squarely. "And you—you've allowed them to go on suspecting your part in it all these years. Do you appreciate how that looks from the outside? To me?"

Castle doesn't shy from her ire, which is ultimately on his behalf. By contrast, his expression is at ease. It's difficult to discern whether he's still closed off or simply taming the emotions attached to the matter.

"Rick, you have to talk to me. I wanna understand if I can."

Finally, there's an infinitesimal lift at the corners of his mouth, not a smile but an inclusive blip of feeling. Even so diminutive an appearance of it bolsters her. "You don't assume you'll be able to," he observes. His eyebrows lift together in a whisper of aggrieved irony. "I wish I'd given your past the same manner of respect. I do now, of course, but my first instinct was..." His voice trails off, the rest not needing to be said.

Beckett smiles minimally with a small shake of her head. The apology for that prior intrusion was all she ever needed.

"They know the truth," Castle declares quietly, back on topic. "Part of them does. The war that has raged here since then is waged between acceptance of that belief and...not. There have been literal casualties on both sides."

Beckett's lips straighten and soon dip into a small frown. "I'm not so sure they do know. You qualify John Autry as your advocate on the matter, but...God, Castle. His face when he talked about it. He thinks you did it."

"Yeah, he wants it to have been me too." Even a gentle volume of his baritone climbs atop every other sound of the evening around them to be easily distinguished. "It is what they prefer to have happened. Did you read the interviews?"

It takes a moment to swim through her confusion at his appalling reply to find her sunken lines of thought. "Uh, yeah. John took me through the case, but I went back in afterward to check those and other parts for myself." Kate shifts her weight from one hip to the other. "False confessions aren't rare, and survivor's guilt is a massive contributor. I figured that'd be what happened in your case, and I'm sure it was a major contributor, but it wasn't solely to blame. They asked the wrong things, and the _way_ they asked them was all wrong too. There were more statements from them summarizing what they imagined taking place than actual questions. It goes beyond any ordinary example of sloppy police work, Castle."

"To be fair," he interjects mildly, "this happened a long time ago."

"The procedure for handling children as witnesses was different," Beckett acknowledges. "More apt to say it hadn't even been written yet actually. That occurred to me as well. Back then, we didn't know how to ask questions without also suggesting the answers we expected to hear. Even in a big city with more experienced investigators on the case that task might have been bungled. It still doesn't excuse what happened here." She crosses her arms in mute stubbornness, her jaw shifting with underlying anger. "They had their own agenda when they questioned you. I can imagine there being a bias in and of itself considering the crimes, but I don't understand how they could get it so twisted around. You have to _want_ it to be true to make that mistake. Why the hell would they prefer it was? That doesn't make any goddamn sense."

"Well," Castle begins softly, "that's definitely one of the stranger details of the aftermath. It was easier for people to imagine me killing Laura. Like it was...better for her somehow. No one wanted to imagine her suffering the way the other women did, or even watching them suffer while knowing her turn was coming. When you consider why they believe what they do, the lack of feasibility sharpens into a terrible kind of clarity. How do we fault them for that? I've never been able to. At first, I guess I was repeating what they wanted to hear, yes. But over time..."

"You started to believe it too."

"I started being afraid it was true," Castle hedges, but then shakes his head. "Same result."

"That is so fucked up," Beckett murmurs with a hand rising to lay at her brow. "It makes me physically ill." Her partner says nothing. The man's expression is thankfully open to her by now, but the glimpses of grief visible there seem to be on her behalf, which is only more upsetting. "Stop feeling bad for me," she chides, "it's your horror story, not mine."

He almost smiles, but not quite.

"Obviously you grew up and realized the truth. So, again, why is this town still mired in what you _might_ have done?"

"Not to quibble unnecessarily, but it isn't the town in general. Not anymore. Most of the current adult generation doesn't even know the story. Remember, this was something people were glad to bury deep and quiet. The issue of scale isn't especially relevant," he explains to her crinkled brow. "I just don't want you thinking I can't go anywhere around here without getting a long string of morose looks. In point of fact, I'm largely anonymous. There wouldn't have been any room for me to come back here if that weren't the case."

Beckett exhales a puff of very dim humor. "Two days ago, I wouldn't have accepted that idea—intentional anonymity. Not with your ego." Unbelievably, a deep hum of a chuckle tours the column of her companion's throat. The sound of it is a quietly happy reminder that, as Rick said, he's more than the sum of his history in Montauk.

Castle's voice rips her out of her thoughts and steers them back on course. "I'm not sure whether I lost the memory of what happened to Laura while we were still in the cave, or if it became muddled in the aftermath, but it _is_ gone. I can't say definitively that I didn't hurt her. I know better in my heart, but the actual proof is just as buried as those poor women."

True. She'd temporarily misplaced that detail between there and here. He doesn't know either way for certain. There are no easy answers to his case. _How alike we are—both of us haunted by our respective scenarios of what-if._

"Well, what the hell do you people talk about when the subject comes up?"

An arching eyebrow greets her question. "You think we talk about it?" It's as she'd guessed previously then. He's learned to live around this piece of history, but not by acceptance or some other form of resolution.

"Not even with John?"

"John has more reason than most to let the past stay buried. As lead investigator, not even his father, Frank, could stop what happened. We were close, you know? That man was as much of a father as any I'd had up to then. He, uh, carried a lot of guilt for not being able to stop the idea people came to have of what happened, of my role in it. I didn't realize that at the time. Mother moved us out of here and we didn't come back for seven years. There was never a chance to grow into that knowledge either. Eight months after the murders, Frank disappeared into the woods and never came out. He found a quiet spot out there and annihilated himself with his service weapon."

"Holy shit."

"He wasn't alone. Anita, Laura and Genie's mother? She threw herself into the sea from the bluffs of False Point. There were a few other suicides at the time. I told you before that no one who worked the case emerged from it unscathed. Some people who waded into it just...didn't quite come out again. It hit harder for people who were already having difficulties in their own lives. The cave itself was, I don't know, the last straw I suppose. Irrefutable proof, for them, that life and the world don't make much sense. Sometimes evil overcomes good. Sometimes the imbalance of that victory is so profoundly one-sided it's hard to believe good could ever hope to win."

"They applied that dismal logic to you too: if good didn't win, innocence must not have either."

Castle gives her another fleet, humorless curve of his lips in reply.

"Go on," she encourages quietly.

He nods and does so. "Three of the victims came from prominent families in the area."

"John mentioned that too."

"It makes an impact when the pillars of a community crumble. There's a psychological event called emotional contagion. It refers to situations where a group will unconsciously emulate one another's emotions to such a degree that they feel them as well. I think, even after the shock and grief wore off for most people, they were still influenced by the families' of the lost. It's a small town. There was nowhere to go to escape it back then. Like a virus, it spread. It endured."

"Unreal," Beckett murmurs with another shake of her head.

"Very real," Castle replies evenly, "and downright mundane. It's simple human nature." He faces her more squarely with either hand slipped into the pockets of his slacks. "There's a, ah, curious sense of responsibility attached to it all now."

She looks at him, runs her hands along her sleeves for warmth. "What do you mean?"

"What I did or didn't do is no longer particularly...hrm. Relevant, let's say."

"Seems pretty goddamn relevant to me, Castle."

"Is it though? Do you think my role in what happened matters to the few people left who carry the result of Llewellyn Matthews' madness? I'm one little detail attached to the end, a sorry note of punctuation on a grander, more painful story. And in that respect my perceived part in this is the only fact, however right or wrong it may be, which gives these people any comfort. The idea that Laura might have...gone...while looking into the eyes of someone she knew, loved. Ones that loved her back," he adds, so softly she has to strain to catch the syllables. The author clears his throat and forges onward, "Is it wrong to feel a responsibility to the victims who didn't make it out of there? And to express that by allowing their families to have what little solace is available under the circumstances by believing the events they constructed of it?"

"Ugh, god." She lifts a hand to the side of her head, cradling it. "That is so _not_ okay. It's sick."

"It's—

"Complicated?" she snaps in interruption.

"That too, but I was going to say: a matter of simple survival. It's not a lie exactly, just an unspoken treaty of possibility."

"There were no hesitation marks. On Laura," she adds, wincing and studying him critically. There's no more distress apparent for getting into the gritty details, so she continues. "The depth of the wounds suggests an adult's strength. It takes...sorry, really, but it isn't easy to, uh, cut through all of that muscle and tendon, let alone with a rock."

"They cited—

"Hysteria strength," Beckett finishes again with a roll of her eyes. "That's an urban legend."

Castle arches an eyebrow as he regards her. "I once saw a woman who was maybe a hundred and thirty pounds stop a six-hundred motorcycle from tipping over onto her two-year-old boy when the kickstand failed. She had a full grocery bag in one arm and grabbed the rear fender with the other. She yanked it over onto its other side from at least a forty-five degree tilt in the opposite direction. It might have crushed her boy if it had fallen."

"Okay, well, scientifically speaking, the evidence of the phenomenon is anecdotal at best. I'm not saying you're lying, Castle, just that no court of law would entertain that explanation if it was used against you."

"The only thing these people have convicted me of within their own minds is the mere possibility of having enough mercy to spare a little girl from tortures that you and I can only imagine." By the end of the statement his voice has changed subtly. There's no lift of volume or growl in the tone. Just a well hidden quake of potently, destructive emotion.

 _Damn. What the hell do you say to that?_

"But you didn't," Beckett attempts. "And you were right not to. Victims of violent crimes survive, Castle. It takes time, and yeah, in some cases survival doesn't even seem like the word for what some people become. But time passes and the horror slowly dims." She sniffs quietly and mentally curses a runny nose for the need to pause.

Castle doesn't even blink an interruption.

"There's always a chance for things to get better." Kate meets his attention again and holds it solidly. "You never know what...or who...might come barging into your life unexpectedly, flipping on the lights in all of those dark corners of yourself, ripping open the curtains to let the sunlight back in. Sometimes the reminder that it's okay to live your own life in the wake of disaster can show up in packages you'd never have expected." Kate pauses by necessity, and her companion's expression is so raw and humbled with understanding that she has to turn slightly to one side and away. "Everyone deserves time to see what chance brings. It's not mercy to rob someone of those possibilities."

Silence eases into the wake of her explanation. It is not uncomfortable, merely heavy with the weight of Castle's lengthy consideration. Finally, he says, "I don't think I took that from her, no. I'll never be one-hundred-percent about it though."

"I'm sure enough for both of us. If you could see what I see, you would be too, you sweet, foolish man."

* * *

 **A/N** : So, a quick note here, because of the questions which the last chapter raised by its end. This is one of those times I wasn't specifically aiming for a cliff-hanger situation, or to confirm Castle's guilt. Whether he did or didn't commit the deed is intended to be more of a question mark for each of you to answer, as Kate found hers.

Sadly, scenarios of fear-riddled people imposing guilt unto situations like this, as John did previously, is no more fictional than it is incomprehensible. History is rife with examples of our little ones being intentionally and unwittingly coaxed into admissions that later prove invalid, likewise the opposite. We get afraid and lose our way. One of the reasons for the delay of this chapter was from researching a veritable cornucopia of sorrowful, real-life examples.

Additionally, it's fascinating to me the way the human mind functions, how it protects and in some cases condemns itself by burying some memories and outright manufacturing others. If our identity is the sum of our experiences, who do we become when those experiences are rendered suspect? I think how we live around the uncertainty matters just as much as the answers themselves. Anyway, musings aside, I hope this chapter was clearer than previous ones!


	13. Survivor's Dream

Detective Katherine Beckett's thoughts can't seem to find the straight and ordered paths into which they are normally herded. Like an airport terminal with all of the crowd control stanchions knocked over heedlessly, the swelling tide of her reception has become one confused congregation of emotions and thoughts tangled together, each clamoring raucously for position as the first to be processed.

She's changed into a plain white camisole and a pair of khaki shorts. Her hair is pinned into a bun. The full ritual of personal grooming typically has a more sedating effect on her. Presently, however, the reflection of her freshly showered, soap-scented skin has a betraying, healthy luster. Her face is slightly flushed and her breathing is labored to the precise point that she's gulping oxygen through the part of swollen, darkened lips. Within her eyes the pupils are dilated so far each iris is barely discernible.

It is by no means unusual for the subject of death to be followed by a sudden urgency to celebrate life via one of its most quintessential aspects. Sexual arousal can be ill-timed without also being morbid or gross. The woman isn't embarrassed by the auto-response occurring. It's just a sharp contrast to the last time she stood in this room under similar assault.

The difference there makes an impact.

 _You cannot go downstairs like this. He'll see._ Gooseflesh rises upon her arms and thighs in almost perverse pleasure at the thought of him assessing her with the seriousness those blue eyes have gleaned lately. There's been a shadow of danger in them in several different circumstances throughout this trip. It hasn't been aimed at her, but they could repurpose that latent ferocity to far better ends. The fabric smoothed across the curves of her chest acquire matching dimples of eager rigidity. _Jeez._ She can't hide from him in either case. It's already been an hour and the sense she got before they drifted apart downstairs was that tonight's macabre festivities aren't done, not quite yet.

 _But what if he sees and wants to—_

Then tonight will be their night. It may not be what she's imagined on their behalf, but there are far worse ways for this to happen than in an attempt of mutual comfort combined with a powerful desire to show the man she cares about that good does win sometimes. Even on the worst days there's a possibility for joy. He knows the truth of that, of course, but together they could provide one another with a much-needed reminder.

Nonetheless, the detective tightens the grip of her willpower before snapping the lights off on her way out of the bath and bedroom. The upstairs hallway is partially lit by the pool of radiance from the foyer she descends into. Kate pauses there a moment uncertainly in the completeness of the quiet which dominates the home. She ventures around the staircase and through the area into the east hallway. There's no light visible from the master suite at the far end, nor from the double set of doors leading down into the terrace level. She explores southward instead, through the single lamp-lit kitchen and dining room and the gloomier living room beyond. The doors to the deck stand closed.

Beckett finds him a minute later tucked away in the combined den and home office in the southwest section. A lamp upon the handsome oak desk casts limited influence over the area. He fell asleep sitting up on one of the pale leather couches there, which makes her glad she hadn't called out for him beforehand. A frown arises to note rapid eye movement apparent beneath each sealed lid. He wears a strained grimace. Seeing him arranged thus has the curious effect of shifting her carnal desires into a different form of affection, the depths of which...aren't up for inspection. There are more pertinent matters. She closely aligns their elevations by lowering onto her knees in the opened junction of his legs.

 _What demons chase you tonight? Specters of the past, or less distinct ones from the stress of our present?_ It would be naive to think him unconcerned about her and what all of this newfound knowledge means for their fledgling steps together. She certainly is.

That's something that will keep for now though. He needs to rest in his bed, not on a couch that'll have him aching tomorrow morning. God knows how much proper sleep he's been getting lately as it is. Even before this weekend they'd both had cause to be kept up at night. A couple glasses of wine might be enough to overcome her current restlessness and broker a truce with the sandman. After she gets him settled in first.

"Rick?" Beckett murmurs, but he doesn't stir. "Castle?" Nothing.

She's debating just coaxing him into at least lying down where he is when the author solves her dilemma by not only awakening, but _exploding_ from slumber and jerking himself upright on the seat with a gasp and a wordless cry that nearly startles her out of her skin. A lather of sweat comes swiftly to life on the heels of the man's abrupt consciousness, but a deep inner chill sets his teeth to chattering uncontrollably.

With their faces mere inches apart Kate can see all too clearly the overwhelming horror in his eyes. Worse is the sheer chasm of vacancy there, the same she'd seen in that picture of him as a boy. It rules those midnight blue orbs like a concealing haze, rendering them dull with lifelessness.

Jolted by it all, Beckett's voice emerges weakened and thready, "Castle?"

He doesn't register a glimmer of recognition. "Don't let go," he spills out on an urgent whisper, surprising her again. _"Don't let go!"_

"Castle, hey, it's okay."

Rick's features work themselves into pure misery, "Don't do that. Oh god, please. Please don't."

"Look at me," Beckett ventures firmly, reaching with trembling fingers to cradle his face. "Castle!"

"Don't let go." Fear and grief spills from him in equal volume. He's caught somewhere between terror and tears. There's such hopelessness in his tortured voice and countenance. It's so piercing that it crosses the gap between them like a dagger of ice being slammed to the hilt within her own booming heart. What paltry words does one offer up to soothe someone who appears to be gazing over the edge of the hellish abyss?

"We're bound," Castle expels in the same rushed whisper, eyes wide and wet. He shakes bodily, involuntarily, rattling her too by their physical connection, and his hands rise to squeezing grips on her arms as he continues brokenly, "The s-s-same steel wires in you run through me. Through my eyes, my mind, and heart. Through my guts. I can't get away, can't break free. We'll always be bound. You're never alone. Never alone. Don't let go."

Katherine Beckett is not a woman who rattles easily, but he's frightening her. She attempts to soothe him again with strokes of her fingers at his cheeks and brow. "Rick, easy. Come on, babe, look at me."

He shudders again with a brief close of his eyes through which fat tears roll out in escape. "I'm with you."

"No," Beckett croaks, "you're _there_. Wake up. Please," she issues tightly, squeezing his shoulders.

"Do you see?" Castle asks and trembles in her grip again, but the tremors don't stop this time. His looks to her right at something only he can discern and keens softly, briefly. "Do you _see_ them?"

"I know, honey. But you're with me now. Don't look. You come home!"

A wracking sob bends his form where he sits. "There's so many. Look at them all, Katie." Hearing that version of her name on his lips at such a very precarious time absolutely destroys what composure remains for her. "They're so...so little and precious. So scared," he expels with another tormented wrench of his upper half. "See? See how scared they are down here in the dark? Oh god." He attempts to curl inward upon himself, but she struggles deeper into him, clenching the man against her as both of them cry. "I'm s-s-so sorry. So sorry. Oh Jesus. I'm sorry."

"Rick, please," she forces through her tears, and it becomes a near panicked litany on her lips, going on and on as she clings to his weak embrace with those hands of his reaching past her in the seeking of something that is decades beyond his grasp. "Please, please, please," she murmurs heedlessly, stroking his hair and the nape of his neck. At some point—she doesn't even know how long it takes—his crushing arms return the hug and his sobs begin to emerge in stronger, wakeful earnestness.

It seems like hours pass before he forces his voice to life again. "Do you—" It fails him and he sucks in a shaky breath as she drifts back only enough to put them eye-to-eye again. "D-do you...hate me?"

A wretched sound of grief escapes her. Then she drums his shoulders with her fists angrily. "No! No." She grips enough to shake him once in ire. "Why would you say that? Why would you _think_ that?"

"B-because I—

Beckett lifts her fingers to his mouth. "Don't." One thick tear drips from him onto the back of her hand. "You don't know. But I do. I do, and you have to trust me on this one, sweetheart." Her fingers lower and she replaces them with her mouth in a brief kiss she barely even feels past a numbness in her lips. "Trust me. You didn't hurt her."

The hopelessness is still in his gaze when it lifts from between them to match hers. "But I couldn't save her either. I couldn't do anything. For any of them." A lighter quiver of his body sends renewed tracks of agony down the masculine planes of his face.

"Oh god," she issues quietly, and snarls him back into her arms, tight and unyielding. "That's just not true. You did so much. You saved every woman who would've come _after_ them. That's a lot, Castle. That's so fucking much."

He hears her this time and maybe, just maybe, there's some iota of a willingness to believe awakened along with the rest. The grief seems to lose some of its bitterness, its ferocity. His body relents a fraction of its tension and the grief flows from there in quieter bursts from both of them.

* * *

 **A/N** : Just a little addition this time. Try as I might, I simply couldn't make anything else fit. There's one more chapter to go. Hopefully the weekend will usher that right along.


	14. Into the Maelstrom

**A/N** : So, not the last chapter after all. I dunno why I even bother trying to predict such details. Bah. There ended up being a few things to touch on that I don't think the closing addition will allow, so, here we are.

Included in this chapter are a couple examples of the manner in which I picture Castle's imagination 'flexing' itself against the real world around him. It occurs in two different formats too, in case neither is confusing enough on their own. Blah. Sometimes the writing happens how it wants to, regardless of my intent. Anyway, just bear in mind that both examples are meant to showcase a unique affinity for imagination on Castle's behalf. He's not cuckoo. Per se.

* * *

 _She's gone._

Richard Castle knows it before his eyes open the following morning.

The previous night she'd stripped him gently, wordlessly down to his briefs and herself to her panties, and they'd drifted off in his bed closely entwined. He'd slept the way only the dead must normally be allowed, deep as oblivion and perfectly dreamless.

As consciousness stretches itself out into every part of him now, he's aware of the breeze from the east windows bathing him fully. If she were still there it would be partially obstructed. If she were elsewhere in the house he wouldn't be hearing only every other noise or lack thereof familiar to this place. Even without the evidence...he _feels_ alone. It takes a moment of gathered resolve to force his eyelids apart.

The woman left no imprint behind, only subtle wrinkles marring the underlying plain white sheet.

Richard smooths the vacant space with his right palm. It's cold. He captures the pillow and draws it closer. The scent of her is strong yet. Blue orbs roll back to their whites and slide closed while he loses himself to it for a short time.

This had gone very differently with Kyra. He'd been taken by surprise that time, which was equal parts shameful naiveté on his part combined with her inability to question the popularly held belief. In a strange way his past might be termed a gift. It is a unique test of another person's desire to trust him, to believe in them, even in the face of overwhelming opposition. Far from being grateful for such a mechanism, he's long cursed it. It's human nature to conform to generalized ideas—not to blindly follow necessarily, but to receive them with a certain level of acceptance. That's part of being one of the tribe. Humanity evolved alongside a certain malleability to the disposition of the group.

Knowing Richard well enough to love him, however, demands original thinking.

He smiles faintly where he lies, because Katherine Beckett has that in spades. Prompted by the thought, the author ceases feeling sorry for himself in her absence and rises to start the day. He goes through the usual morning rituals quietly within the near-silence of the massive, brightly sunlit home.

She'd considerately made enough coffee for both of them before she left. There's a mug already set out on the counter for him, upside down upon a napkin. Rick lifts it to cradle the item against his chest and his smile unfurls again at the sight of a lipstick imprint of a kiss upon the abandoned white square of paper.

Beckett left a letter on his chair on the deck, which is just plain creepy. Of all the places in or around the beach house he might venture with his first cup of the day, she chose the correct one? The single sheet of off-white stationary is from a forgotten stack of them in his desk. It's weighted down on the left arm of the seat by two of the larger seashells they found yesterday on the beach. _Two of them_ , he notes while settling into the wooden embrace of his favorite chair, _his and hers._

Following a greedy gulp of his morning brew, he sets it aside and slides the single page free. He prods the shells side-by-side again afterwards, as she'd arranged them. Rick lifts the paper to his nose, testing, but there's no scent of her there that the blunted olfactory analysis of a person can discern.

 _Ooh, hey. What about that? An experiment goes wrong, a man's wife goes missing, and he has to track her using his newfound keen senses._ No. Impossible. That has to have been done previously. Still, he'll check. He imagines Liam Neeson starring, standing, gun in hand, on a rooftop balcony somewhere in Paris, alternatively sniffing and cocking his head to listen with his characteristic scowl. _"I will find you. I will k—ooh, freshly baked scones? Yum."_

The stationary is clean, but also quite old. There's no crispness to the page as he unfolds it, but an aged softness and a whisper of sound as he slides the folded halves apart. The detective's handwriting is present in recognizably bold strokes, businesslike haste and confidence wed to every stroke of the black ink pen she'd used.

 _Morning Sleepyhead,_

 _Sorry to slip away like this. You look so peaceful, finally. I don't have it in me to wake you._

Castle glances up with a squint at the brightness of the grounds beyond, vibrant green grass set against the backdrop of a clear azure sky. He purses his lips ruefully. She would be capable of noting the difference between him under the careful reigns of control as opposed to being genuinely at-ease. _Do you miss anything?_ The lounging man frets over whether his grimness has marred the weekend for her, but soon eases it aside in favor of lowering his attention to the letter again.

It's the most natural thing in the world to let his imagination take over from there.

The real world doesn't fade away exactly, but a layer of imposed perception is draped over it as surely as the colors of the world are lain upon every object in sight. The detective appears at his right and settles into the other chair, exactly where he wishes she were. He sees her as she was last night: a sweeping configuration of sublime curves and svelte lines, naked but for a cute pair of pink underwear. She grins at him and winks unashamedly, but also gives just the slightest bow of her head in a blip of shyness prompted by being observed while speaking openly to him. _You do that sometimes._

He watches her face the distant coast while her voice forms the words he reads. "I don't want you to be worried about my being gone." The image he's conjured nods in self-agreement. "I'm still not running. There's something I need to do today."

"It's okay. I'm not afraid," Castle says, which qualifies as talking to himself, yes, but...it happens sometimes.

Beckett smiles widely again, a brilliant flash of pearl in the shade of the deck, but she doesn't reply. Not even in his imagination would Richard presume himself capable of representing the woman with that extent of accuracy. The letter goes on. "A few minutes ago, I called the Assessor's Office we visited last night. This probably wasn't on your agenda, but I need to see where everything happened. Once the owner there found out that I'd been in the room he keeps locked up tight, even to himself, it wasn't hard to get more information about the farm."

Castle sighs. For a moment the imagined scene vanishes. "Ah, Kate." It's equal parts regret for bringing her into his darkness, pride in her determination to finish what they started, and in a distant third is a stirring annoyance at the fact that the woman doesn't know when to stop. The sense of having uncovered something to its full comprehension is the finish line beyond which she'll let something go. Nothing short of it will suffice. _I might have known better._

"Why am I not surprised you hold the deed on Llewellyn's property?" Beckett murmurs beside him and shakes her head sorrowfully. Her hazel orbs shift over the scenery beyond them both, distressed and unable to linger on any one thing for long. "I wear a watch and a ring. Maybe that's not the surest footing from which to preach about letting the past lie, but good grief, Castle. The depths of that madman's depravity is equaled in its degree of commitment only by the lengths you've gone to in keeping your guilt as close as you have." Her voice quiets to almost nothing. "It breaks my heart."

Castle sucks in a long, slow breath and shifts the page within his grasp against a press of the wind.

Beckett clears her throat and continues, "I'm headed out there now. John agreed to meet me, so I'm not gonna be alone, okay? I know it's not somewhere you're likely to want to visit again." The image of her at his side turns, regarding him with another melancholy smile. "I'm going to wait for you there, but not for long. I don't want you to come, but part of me thinks maybe you will."

"There's nowhere I won't follow you," the author growls.

"I want you, Castle, but I don't need you. Not this time. Wait for me here if you can, please."

"I can. I won't."

"Either way," the letter goes on to say, and he to imagine hearing, "I want you to know that I'm not going to the cavern because I'm still making up my mind about us." He has to pause again for a girding breath, and looks askance at the imagined image of her warily. "I'll be going back to the city after this. I can't think around you." She smiles wryly. "Not about what I need to be thinking about anyway." A puff of dim amusement escapes him unexpectedly. "That's not me running either. You and me, babe—we're doing this. I'm not asking for space. I don't want a fucking inch between us."

She'd underlined the expletive in the letter, which makes him hum internally with another note of humor.

"I like this new image I have of us. I only want some time to grasp it a little better." Kate tilts at him quizzically. "Don't you need that too?" Then she sighs and her dark hair sways with an indecisive shake of her head. "I'm not sure, but I can imagine that being the case. I can picture you staying out here to write our fictional counterparts a new adventure, working this all out that way. I'll do the same in my own less lucrative fashion. You'll come back to the city soon enough and we'll continue the work we're so much better at together than we are apart. And as we do that we'll get to know one another better, our intentional and unwittingly secretive selves. God, Castle. I can't wait. I'll see you soon, okay?"

The letter is signed: _Yours, Kate. P.S.: I didn't 'steal' Connie. She begged me to take her._

Castle chuckles again to think of the detective tearing around Montauk's quiet roads in the Bentley, top down and dark hair flowing like a silken banner. He lowers the hand holding the letter to the arm of his chair and with that motion dispels the imagined images of Kate. There's so much color in the real and breathing midmorning around him. That won't fade away while the two of them walk for a little bit longer in the footsteps of a monster and his prey. No. They'll just carry that brightness within themselves for a little while, that's all. As burdens go, it'll be nice to bear one so pleasant for a change.

For both of them.

He rises with the mug, letter, and shells in-hand and goes back inside to get dressed, feeling, for the first time he can recall, unafraid of the prospect of going back to that wretched place. Well, less afraid. He won't be alone.

* * *

From a distance he sees them standing together. The Bentley and John's F-150 are pulled over safely onto the shoulder. The pair stopped before the metal bars of the gate across the dirt road that leads to the farm. The Sergeant, dressed down today in jeans and a black t-shirt, straightens to his full height upon recognizing the Mercedes hybrid Castle is driving.

Kate turns with a lifted hand blocking out the sunlight to observe the writer's approach. She's wearing another pair of shorts and camisole top, the former red and alluringly succinct in their encasement of her long, toned legs, the latter article thin, white, and scooped across the back and bust. The woman's mostly bared shoulders round amidst a little slump.

Whether that's a gesture of relief or regret isn't easily discernible from a distance.

He parks behind the sleek and newly dubbed 'Connie'. Beckett meets him at the driver's side door before he can even close up after himself in a lunging crush of a hug and a fierce kiss that dissolves wondering about her reception one way or the other for several seconds. He's dimly aware of her capturing and slowly lifting one of his hands partially into place over the pert curve of her left breast. The galloping of the heartbeat beneath the firm but yielding flesh gradually arises through the mind-numbing haze of eroticism attached to the act. _Oh. Yes, I feel you, Kate._

"Brute," she greets in a huff, and releases his hand to hug him again with a bit less forcefulness.

The writer is so easy-going, even conciliatory most of the time. It's a horrible nickname she's bestowed. A chuckle rumbles in his chest and explores the column of his throat. He smooths her back and sides. "I found your note. How could I stay away?"

Beckett eases up enough to lean back and regard him. She stares for a handful of silent moments before finally shaking her head with an alluring sway of her hair which gleams in the sunlight. "Will you ever learn to stay put when I tell you to?"

"I'll...think about it," he answers pointedly, and by the pleased narrowing of her eyes it's clear she's gotten his underlying message of approval regarding her plans for their immediate and near-future. Her fingers touch down in a playful shushing upon his lips, but Rick didn't intend on giving their plot anymore elaboration anyway.

"That's real nice," John complains gruffly as he joins them nearby. "I didn't even get a handshake."

Beckett eases back with a breath of a laugh, and chides the man with a reply Castle doesn't quite catch. His focus is more on the subtler cues of the woman's body language, which imply mixed emotions from having John present. It is a complicated relationship the two men share, to be sure. The same must be said for John and Kate at this point, which makes him wonder why she asked the EHTPD officer to come along.

Castle offers the other man his broad palm, but John wrinkles his nose, turns away some, and crosses his arms in stubborn refusal. "I don't need your pity."

"Looks like pouting is a family trait," Beckett taunts good-naturedly and John's broad shoulders twinge guiltily. She doesn't exactly approve of the man, but she recognizes his position in Rick's life. There's a semblance of peace being offered if not outright acceptance. Perhaps time and familiarity will allow the second to emerge someday.

 _That still doesn't explain why he's here now though._

"Were you waiting long?" Castle asks with a glance from one to the other.

"About an hour." the Sergeant replies, not seeming the least put out by that fact.

"I was hoping you'd be able to sleep longer," Beckett confides. "I was planning to wait until noon."

It's only ten-thirty. Castle takes a settling breath. He thinks he's kept his features in check, but it's hard not to be effected. Kate made a plan that included a determined amount of time for him to either show up or choose not to. He originally set her on this course, one she couldn't have thought we become so twisted as it has. The detective agreed to follow it, and now she's continuing to pursue it beyond his expectations—doing so while also carving out room for him to be by her side for the rest of the way. Partners. It's...it's a beautiful, and beautifully proactive thing she's done.

"I could still be dreaming," Castle replies at length, his voice a touch rough.

Beckett purses her lips with an almost private smile and hooks an arm through his right one.

John turns as well, leading the way towards the gate. He has a copy of the padlock key that secures the chain. Thick steel links clatter heavily against the horizontal aluminum bars as he reels it free and drapes it over the top bar.

A five-foot barbed-wire fence at either side of the passage encircles the entirety of the twelve-acre property. It skirts the full length of dirt road ahead on both sides. The plot therein is essentially a large oval of open field hemmed in by vary depths of forest on all sides. Elevation varies throughout it all in a few gentle hills, the largest of which they're ascending now along the road. Flora surrounding them is mostly scraggly brush and natives grasses. A few youthful pine trees have crept in here and there since last Richard visited, and a familiar, massive live oak stands like a sentinel with twisted boughs and a drooping mantle on the distant hilltop ahead and to their right.

"So this place was really a farm once?" Kate asks. She pauses after asking and stares at the distant, ancient tree. A frown eases into place and she turns sharply forward again to continue walking at his left.

"Once," Castle confirms. "If you walk a few miles southeast you'll run into the oldest still-functional ranch in the country. This one was closed down, sectioned up, and sold off over a century ago. This particular parcel of that larger whole has been passed around far more than other properties out here. At one point it was held by a wealthy widow named Janice Cooper. Later in her life she became...a patron, let's say, of Llewellyn Matthews. She willed the property to him when she passed."

"He didn't..."

"What—kill her? We don't think so, no. Janice suffered a massive coronary in her sleep."

"Matthews didn't even touch the property for almost four years," John takes over explaining. "There are local ordinances in place against allowing structures to waste away to the point becoming condemned. So, eventually, he was forced to deal with it. That return visit must've been when he found the cavern, because one day he didn't give a rat's ass about it and the next he began an expensive and elaborate reconstruction effort in preparations for it becoming his primary residence."

"What did Llewellyn do anyway? Where did get the money for that?"

"You don't know?" Castle asks, and frowns over at John.

The Sergeant shrugs. "We only covered the details that mattered most."

"He was quite a famous artist," Rick explains to his fairer companion. "A sculptor."

"Oh shit," the detective grumbles. "That makes a sick kind of sense."

"The bastard's still widely regarded for it." John tugs a tall stalk of grass up from the roadside and idly peels away its looser sheath of stemming as he continues, "Which says nothing at all for folks' tastes."

"He's brilliant in the medium," Castle disagrees evenly, his jaw set. "That's never been in question. You should see his work sometime," he offers aside to Beckett, and sighs. "It bends the mind that someone could do what he did and also prove capable of creating pieces that are compared to Michaelangelo and Bernini. That's no exaggeration. It's not just the life he puts into them—it's the energy. Positive energy. Joy. Laughter. It's one more reason he was so hard to see for what he really..." he stops, expression tensed, and let's the subject die right there.

The others remain silent. They just walk for a ways.

A few minutes later the trio crests the hill upon the dirt road. They pause in close unison without a word needing to be spoken. A hundred yards below and beyond stands a large, two-story white farmhouse. There's a fenced corral alongside it, also white, presumably for working with horses. The roadway splits in the distance between that left destination and a right fork which terminates at the barn. It's also two-stories in height, a once handsome red exterior that has waned with time to a hue more reminiscent of rust. To the author it resembles the color of dried blood.

Richard shivers where he stands.

John turns and looks at Beckett. "Did you ask him about his imagination?"

"Huh? Oh. Uh...no. Why?"

"Now is as good a time as any." The Sergeant doesn't look at Castle, but faces ahead of them and settles into a lingering stance. He crosses his arms again. "Go ahead. Tell her what you see."

The author has zero intention of obliging—right up until his partner reaches for his left hand and threads their fingers together with an upward glance at him. She doesn't seem worried, only curious.

"I see the same thing you two do. It's just—

"Don't fuck around with semantics," John interrupts. "Just...do it." He looks down at his boots. "Please."

Beckett's grasp tightens imperceptibly as if she were reconsidering not flinching after all.

Castle feels his features go slack as he glances down the hillside for a full silent minute. Like imagining Beckett earlier, it's as easy as breathing to swap the reality before him with a...flipside of it within his own mind. In this case, however, it is a draining experience—not in terms of expended energy, but in how this particular endeavor of it scatters his emotions like a murder of frightened crows. They flee to far corners of his heart until only barrenness remains in their place.

Only a decisive unease lingers. It spreads a chill up from the soles of his feet, as if the ground were leeching away his warmth.

"I would recognize you even if I was blind," Richard unfurls, and even his voice feels bereft of texture, a dead thing with only enough inflection to be properly understood. "If I had always _been_ blind, I'd still know you."

John's voice seems to come from a greater distance than is literal at the time. "What do you see?"

"There isn't much to be seen."

"There's nothing different?"

"There's nothing. Period."

A tinge of impatience infects the Sergeant's tone. "Yes there is. Describe it."

"What're you two doing?" Beckett asks from his side, nonplussed.

"Don't interrupt," John replies firmly. "Richard...go on. Look at the ground. Start there."

He does so despite his reluctance, frowning some as the varied shades of green surrounding them bled slowly into browns, to greys, and finally to black. The vegetation shrivels as if stricken by a sudden, ravenous blight. It crumbles as a whole, falling like dust against the rigid surface of soil through which jagged cracks begin running rife from a killing dehydration. The ground splits apart with low groans as immense ledges of rock thrust their way steadily up through it. He watches tens and then hundreds of them rise up against a dimming, darkening sky, at times colliding and crumbling downward again into maw-shaped formations of volcanic rock. All too quickly their trio is standing on the edge of a bowl-shaped basin. The mountainous boundaries of its circumference push outwards impossibly until the blight has conquered all compass points.

"Jesus Christ," Beckett issues quietly, and he realizes he's been describing it all aloud for them.

"Keep going, brother."

In a precise opposite from the death of earth, the already green-tinged sky begins to dim further from the outside in. Like a low-hanging storm moving in from every direction, deep grey clouds converge upon the region in a derisive disregard of physics. The sun winks a last feeble ray of parting before the canopy swallows it whole. Unsatisfied, the sky grows only darker. It becomes a cruel mirror of the ground below for blackness. In some places the glassy tips of the taller obelisk formations vanish into the morass overhead, like pillars holding it aloft. The clouds begin turning clockwise as he observes, a cauldron of vaporous and congealing ichor being stirred by an unseen hand.

From out it lowers the whirlwind, not with a sway from side-to-side, but with the straight, plunge of a gargantuan funnel miles in diameter. It touches down in utter silence and without so much as a stirring of the dust coating the cancerous soil. All that denotes its unfurling is a tremendous inner vibration of impact in the author's bones, one which the world cannot, or will not, give a more literal voice to. As if in greeting, new crevices split open in the ground with sudden fissures of steam blasting skyward alongside a surging glow of fiery radiance, as if the mantle had been tapped.

Even that light dims in places. It deepens to oranges and reds that ebb and surge in time to the slow churning of the tempest in the valley's center. The lifeblood of the planet is drawn inexorably out. Striations of it glare out from the impossible funnel like great slashes of eyes, winking and vanishing only to reappear in new places. It flows up into the sky and crawls out into the clouds like networks of veins, or like lightning that struck with customary brilliance and forgot to fade afterwards. Instead it lingers and pulsates along with the glow of magma from below, both waxing and waning to the ceaseless, soundless churning of the maelstrom.

"Enough!" Beckett commands quietly, but sharply. The imagined scene is gone that suddenly. "Just...stop, Castle." Her palm is moist against his before she pulls away. The woman wipes it against her shorts and wiggles her fingers some before gripping him determinedly again. The snap of her head fixes an expression he cannot see on their accompanying officer. It drives the man half a pace away from her. "What exactly was the point of that fucking exercise, John? Was there some question in your mind about whether or not he doesn't like being here? You really needed proof?"

The target of her anger returns it in kind with a flexing shift of his jaw. "Don't you wanna know what he sees when you drag him around your city to places where people have likewise mangled one another? Tough shit. Now you do."

Beckett flinches and pales swiftly. She looks up at Castle with her lips parted, but the words flown.

"She doesn't drag me anywhere," Richard clarifies stoically to the other man. "Maybe I was just following in her wake at the beginning, but not now. Not for some time. We walk side-by-side."

John shakes his head slowly. "Sorry, brother, but that's bullshit. You're being led, sure as hell, and she's holding the reigns. Ask her about your caseload—about how her and the brass in The City have been steering you away from the ones they think you can't handle." He squints with a tilt of his shaved head. "Why do think they do that?"

"You really need to stop talking," Beckett grits. "You have no idea what you're talking about. I gave you a few brief cliff notes, and you presume to know the full story? Fuck you, John."

"Don't tell me," the Sergeant replies coldly. "Tell him."

"Tell me what?" Castle asks, reaching to lay a calming hand on his partner's shoulder. She writhes angrily out from under it, but doesn't release their gasped hands even when he loosens his in preparation for it. "Tell me what?" he poses again. "That they don't think I'd be comfortable investigating murders that involve kids? Or rape? Or scenes where the sheer shock-value of brutality is meant to be a message between rival criminal organizations?"

John arches an eyebrow. "You don't want to know what prompted them to do that? Why they're worried?"

The writer sighs inwardly. "Aren't they right to be? I'm not sure how effective I would be in cases where the victim's suffering is the full story behind the killer's intent. I know those crimes are out there. Maybe I _could_ handle them, but that's Beckett's call, and making that distinction isn't even supposed to be part of her job description; she assumes that responsibility on my behalf. I imagine our arrangement sometimes involves enduring unnecessary grief from other cops who judge her protecting me from the worst our city has to offer."

John shakes his head. "I'm not condemning her intentions, brother. I'm trying to tell you why she has them."

"I already know why. She's an intelligent, compassionate woman with wisdom beyond her years." He can't bring himself look at her while he says it. "I trust her judgment, brother. You should too."

He starts walking forward again, and his companion startles into movement a second later. Her long stride puts them side-by-side again quickly. He's peripherally aware of John lingering behind for the moment. "Don't...please don't say anything," he requests softly, meeting Kate's gaze briefly. It's all so raw and revealed there: gratitude, relief, pride in his estimation of her. It all wilts some at his plea and gives way to confusion. "I'm sorry for talking about you like you weren't there. And also...if any of that came as a surprise. I hope to God it didn't."

Beckett glances away with just a splinter of bashfulness. "Not exactly. It's just...phew. It's amazing to hear that out loud."

"It's so wrong that it would even be brought up though. We know better. Any given theory we spin or any door we go through together without knowing what's on the other side—you and I know our places with one another, which for damned sure includes you at the tip of our spear. You know where to aim us all so that we strike effectively as a team."

They walk on for a two dozen paces before she breaks the silence between them again. "Am I correct in assuming then that you, uh, knew what was happening? About the caseload being, uh, edited some?"

Richard shrugs one broad shoulder, not seeing the importance of the question and more focused on the nearing destination.

"Castle."

"Hrm?"

"Answer me, please."

"Oh, sorry. Uh, no, I guess I didn't. I've never really thought about it. I always figured that when the really bad cases came along I'd deal with them one at a time, work the ones I felt comfortable with and stay peripheral on the others. Ah, I know cops don't actually get to pick and choose like that. Ugh, I guess I sounded like that spoiled playboy again, didn't I?"

"No, Castle—

"I just mean," he interjects mildly, "that I would step back if I thought I needed to, so as not to be a burden if those circumstances came up. I'm not made of steel. I know there are limits."

"We _all_ have limits, Brute." The author pauses and looks askance at her. "What? I like my creation," she chirps.

"Mmhmm. I know just what you mean, Allie."

Beckett bares her teeth in a mocking snarl at him, but within several more paces she's eased back into seriousness. "I'm glad to know you were thinking about it. That shows more responsibility than I knew to give you credit for."

"It's not your fault that I'm a good chameleon."

She sighs, nodding once, but adds, "You saw me though."

"You've surprised me plenty this weekend." Saying so elicits another fleet smile from him.

"I suppose. It's fair to say I was trying to anyway."

"What a splendid way of putting that."

"Huh?"

"Past tense."

"Fuck yeah. Screw that noise. Mostly. Maybe not screw it quite yet, but we'll give it third base."

Castle chuckles briefly. "If you'd told me three days ago we would be standing within a mile of this place and that I'd be laughing at the time..."

"If you'd told _me_ a few days ago I'd be sleeping nestled up in bed bare-chested against you..." The novelist cannot summon mirth for that comparison though. He does smile somewhat, but having her there against him last night was too good to make light of. She smooths his left bicep as if to soothe any ruffled feathers from the attempt. "Yeah," she adds quietly. "Me too."

They pause together in perfect synchronization with his shoes and her sandals set directly before the triangular tipped shadow cast by the barn looming ahead. Their mutual good humor cools and swiftly wanes.

The structure's over-sized front doors are designed to roll apart from the middle. There's a small gap already present between them, a line of flawless darkness three inches wide. That's normal. The space isn't even enough for a child to slip through, and the heavy duty chain is still coiled securely between two hollows cut into each of them.

John reappears at their side. His bearded countenance is marred by a scowl, but the author knows that's a reaction to the barn, not their previous difference of opinion. No mere argument would keep the Sergeant from having both their backs with all the force he could bring to bear. The man's thick fingers unlatch a keyring from his belt that jingles as he approaches the portal ahead. He frees the lock and pulls the chain down with a grating series of percussions that Rick can feel echoing in his chest. "Into the maelstrom we go," their fore mutters, and pushes the doors apart.


	15. On Wings of Light

A creeping sensation of being observed makes Richard turn at the waist to look back at the farmhouse. Closer now, the white wooden shingling is apparent for its cracked and peeling signs of wear. Each window is flanked by dark, almost black shutters. The glass is so dusty as to be opaque, like eyes staring out with pale cataracts over them. The abode can only look inward to its own quiet corridors with any clarity. It feels obscenely hungry for the sights and sounds long denied it. More famished still is the entropy nipping at its edges, ever greedy for more.

 _Go ahead, guess which one I'm rooting for._

"Castle," Beckett murmurs quietly. She glances backwards at the house as well when he faces her, and then to him again with some concern. "Are you ready?" Richard nods once slimly in reply, but she frowns as if unconvinced and smooths the t-shirt he wears against his chest. "You don't have to." The press of her palm is more revealing than words; she's pushing lightly, perhaps in a subconscious expression of the desire for him to be anywhere else. "You have nothing to prove here."

A difficult breath finds its way into him, and pauses as presses a kiss to her temple. The things the woman says. "I'm with you."

The assurance elicits an odd expression, a purse of her lips and crinkle at her brow. Something about it reminds him of last night in the den... But the detective reels him firmly back to the present when her fingers close over his with a light, brief squeeze. Then she faces forward and follows John into the barn.

Sunlight filters in through several second-story windows and in narrow lines between some of the flat-board walls. Particles of dust trickle down and vanish between slivers of light. The scents associated to such structures is prominent here too: hay, aged wood, and after all this time there is still a faint odor of manure from the horse stalls. A miasma of oil and diesel fuel arises from the large John Deere tractor parked centrally and covered by a canvas tarp. The brush and field mower is still hitched to its rear from the last time Rick tended to the property's expansive grounds.

Not a rustle or creak disturbs the thick drape of silence lain over the place.

As he crosses the threshold, however, the place suddenly emits a low, chorused groan. The planks of the walls bow slowly outward as he watches. The roof lifts away in similar fashion with strained creaks from its timbers. _No._ The outlying pillars become clear for the ribs of this beast that they actually are. Dust shakes loose in showers that fall in trembling waves. This place has been waiting. Now it draws the shuddering breath its been holding in anticipation since last he dared to come.

 _Stop_ , the writer snaps to himself, closing his eyes tightly. _Focus._ He does, with his hands clenched into fists so tight the struggle of his pulse is detectable within them like a frightened animal writhing in a live trap. When the man's blue eyes open again the barn is normal. He lets out a slow, controlled breath. Another. He's fine.

Beckett is staring at him. And he feels as transparent as glass beneath her hazel orbs.

Richard advances to the right to flip the light switches on. A triplet of bulbs come to life, each fixed along the same central beam running the length of the structure. Metal, conical shades direct their radiance into generous pools that seem weakened and ineffective with the brightness of daylight also pouring in.

"Matthews' threw a lot of social gatherings," John comments. "People would be making nice in the house or outside, laughing, drinking. Their kids would be running around playing together, even out here in the barn. All the while there would often be a woman under their feet, probably screaming her lungs out."

Beckett glances at her partner again, but communicates precious little by her expression. A moment later he realizes she isn't trying to say anything. She's simply watching. Waiting. For what, he doesn't rightly know.

After last night, perhaps the anticipation is for another outpouring of emotion. But that occurrence was the first time in God only knows how long he's allowed himself to grieve those women openly. There aren't enough tears within him to express the injustice of what happened, of what continues to happen every single time he wakes up in the morning and they do not. The only thing that feels worthy of doing to honor them is trying to live well, and to remember them. Every book is their story, each strong female character their avatars, and every murderer thrust to conclusion, either by the justice system or the molten intrusion of a bullet is each woman's striking epitaph. They are far from forgotten.

A deep, thrumming growl fills the air.

For a moment he thinks his imagination has escaped its reigns again to provide his anger a form of sympathetic release, but then the sound pauses and resumes again. He glances right to see John pulling at the chains. Twin wheels holding coiled lengths of them are fixed above. The natural presumption upon seeing them is that the mechanism enables loads from below to be raised to the barn's loft. Indeed, that is the case, but there are two wheels and pulleys. The second set, accessed by a hidden switch for the track system, serves to slide away a thick slab of steel set into the floor in one of the empty horse stalls. Once upon a time it was concealed under pallets upon which stacks of innocuous supplies were stored.

The detective shakes her head, unimpressed and frowning where she stands.

The three-foot wide opening elongates steadily under John's efforts, until soon enough the plate is moved back fully and that growling grating ceases. They file past the tractor one by one and converge abreast each other again at the gloomy opening in the floor. A medium-length cement staircase leads down.

"Oh shit," Beckett gasps, flinching away a moment. She points without looking. "Are those—is that...?"

Richard stares impassively at the bloody footprints of his flight from the underground, still visible after all this time. A few hand prints decorate either wall. By the time he'd made that trip he hadn't been walking steady. Safe from the weather, each small imprint has retained a reddish-brown hue. The evidence was never a detail he attempted scrubbing away. Why would he? "I-it's part of the story," he stammers aloud, irrationally needing to explain it in the face of Kate's reaction.

He blinks in surprise as she _attacks_ the bloody footprint on the uppermost step, scraping her right foot across it again and again with the flat portion of her heeled sandal. An unsettling conflict of grief and fury wars upon her features. The imprint smears some and pales under the assault, but it doesn't vanish so easily.

"Detective," John grits, stepping forward and reaching for her.

Beckett shakes his grip on her bicep off with a whirl at the waist, eyes wide and absolutely livid. "Don't touch me!" she snarls viciously, and Rick backs away from her half a pace just as surely as the Sergeant does. The sensation of being scorched by her fury is just as tangible as the sense of having narrowly avoided stepping off the sheerest of ledges and into a terminal plunge. The woman can be so giving and gentle, but step between her and that intensely ingrained sense of justice and...well...she's more than merely capable of freezing a man's blood in his veins.

The sound of her own savage outcry echoing in the barn seems to ring the death knell on her attempt to erase Rick's decades old retreat though. Still scowling tautly down at it, she exhales angrily and descends the steps with clear reluctance for leaving the grisly task unfinished.

John shares a look with him, sighs mutely, and gestures for the novelist to go first.

He hesitates to do so, regarding the other. "Have you ever made this descent before?"

"Me? Once. Genie came. We, uh, went down together."

"When was that?"

The bearded man frowns somewhat, seeming perplexed. "That first summer you came back. '83, I think."

 _Too early. Damn. There's nothing for it now,_ the other man muses. He nods in understanding and follows the stairs into the darkness of the earth. Beckett stopped just past the limitations of the light from the barn. She has her cellphone out and is shining the glow from the camera flash in a slow arc. The earthy walls and ceiling are a rough texture. Steel support beams flank the corridor, while wooden ones criss-cross the ceiling. Such was the care of its construction, it remains safe to navigate almost four decades later. That being said for it, there's a definite change of tone occurring. They've descended from rustic civilization into something closer to the roots of their species, when caves were optimal forms of sanctuary.

"We're in this nightmare now," Beckett issues with an odd ring of finality. It's unlike anything he would expect her to say.

It chills him all over again.

"There's an antechamber ahead, where..." he trails to silence. Any further words stick in his throat as he watches the very edges of the whitish glow from the cell phone glances across a pair of pale, femininely slim legs walking away from them, deeper into the substructure. There's no sound, and shadow consumes all other details. Another ghost sprung from his imagination, but...he's never conjured the women before. It hits like a punch in the gut.

"Richard," John's tenor calls mildly. His heavy hand clamps gently onto the author's right shoulder.

"S-sorry," Rick rasps. "Ahead. There's a kind of room ahead. There's light."

Kate is staring back at him, concern etched in deeply by the shadows. "What did you see?"

"You know," he returns in an uncomfortable whisper. She must, because she bites her lower lip and shakes her head.

"Their hands gently beckon. They whisper your name. But those who go with them are never the same."

The author and detective both turn to stare backwards at the last in line, their eyes involuntarily wide. John blanches and rubs at the back of his neck. "Sorry. It's—kids, y'know? Even with the history here well buried, they speculate about this old farm, how it's haunted and all. It's the usual small town folklore, though in this case it's the kind that's always been a little too close to the truth to coax them into actually exploring. Instead they process it with their stories and a, uh, infamously dark rhyme. Part of it got stuck in my head, I guess."

"Jeez," Beckett hisses softly, shivering with a quiver of the flashlight beam, but marching forward nonetheless.

"How does the rest of it go?" the author asks despite himself.

"No! No fucking thank you," their fore growls back at them.

Seconds later comes a metallic clacking sound. Light blooms from a single ceiling fixture similar to the ones in the barn. It reveals a smallish, square-shaped area with two central pillars, one of which Kate stands at. A red-handled flip-switch is affixed to the pole. Beyond that the room is completely bare. There's a single wooden door in the far wall, once white, but tinged by its time underground into a grimy chartreuse.

Castle gravitates slowly towards it without being fully aware of his legs in motion.

"What was this room used for?" Beckett asks.

"Storage," John answers. "There used to be shelving on the left side. Matthews' kept a stockpile of illegally obtained drugs in a refrigerator...there. And here was a barrel filled with rebar filed to a point at one end. And over here, spools and spools of steel wire. On that side of the room were better quality shelves. That's where he kept his journals, black, leather-bound books filled with his psychotic blather. There were over three hundred of them dating back to his early teens when he first began to have thoughts about, uh, what he eventually put into motion."

"The pages were all unlined," Castle muses aloud. "But every word was precisely straight across each page." He stops before the door and crouches. One hand rises slowly to stroke along the inner jamb. Both edges are scored by fingernail scratches. There are too many to provide an easy count.

"Ah, fuck," Beckett grunts, and hisses out a noisy breath at his left.

John grunts in similar, wordless distress before turning and pacing away from it.

"He drugged them to get them from New London to here," Rick recalls. "But it seems like all of them were awake before he led them out of this room and into the next. This is where he stripped them, cleaned them up. No," he adds swiftly, frowning. "He wouldn't have cleaned them. The dirtier they were, the more proof he had of their lack of importance to the rest of the world. To himself, rather. Discards, all. At least, the original twenty-four were seen to be." He pauses briefly, aware of the detective staring hard at him. "Were the final five the same?"

By the strain in her tone, it's clear his partner is curious too, but also reluctant to indulge him. "Why wouldn't they be?"

"Matthews' said himself that they were different," John reminds them.

"That's not precisely right," Beckett says, not unkindly. "He doesn't use that word. He doesn't specifically separate them from the others in the terms we're trying to apply. In fact, he only describes them as 'unexpected necessities' from what I read." She grunts, scowls, "As if the piece of shit had run out of paint and had to make a run to the hardware store."

"They went into the Offering alive," Castle observes. "That alone says something important."

"It says he was a sick fuck who was out of his mind," John growls. "Can we keep moving?"

Beckett's mouth dips shallowly into displeasure, but she rises from her crouch at Rick's side in evident agreement on continuing.

Castle does as well at length and opens the door before him. The passage beyond that point is raw stone, a transition itself that lends the whole underground sprawl a surreal component. It demands walking at a crouch in a couple places where the ceiling dips low. No man-made supports were placed here. The bones of the world need no such assistance.

"It's cold," the detective whispers, and accepts his grasp in hers when he reaches back for her.

The cavern is an abrupt and surprisingly spacious bulge at the end of the natural corridor. The walls are mostly smooth, oddly curved surfaces, obviously carved out by some ancient subterranean estuary. It's roughly forty feet in diameter along the floor, and twenty tall at the highest point of its dome-shaped ceiling. Sunlight pours through the apex of it where a ten-foot-wide hole lays the sky bare overhead.

"This wasn't open like that before," John comments, squinting upwards.

As far as the novelist is aware, no one has set foot in the cave since his last series of visits, nearly twenty years ago. The products of those bygone sojourns, including the crude skylight, draws Kate's hand out of his in order to grasp at his left shoulder instead, so tightly she is mangling the fabric of his t-shirt while her widened eyes roam the area.

"Oh god," the Sergeant murmurs, likewise stricken.

 _Far from it_ , the author muses sadly, _though His name was called here more times than I could count._

His eyes make the familiar tour as well, resting briefly upon each of the many life-sized carvings he wrought from the stone walls. _And I used your tools to do it, demon. Think of that if you ever return here._ A sculptor Richard Castle is not. None of the pieces are suggestive of a skill level beyond that which any dedicated apprentice might possess. Rather, the robed figures are recognizable as being feminine and their proportions are particularly are well-done, which together speak of the untold hours the project demanded to eventually produce worthwhile results.

Twenty-four female figures are depicted in myriad portions of visibility along the outer wall, as if each one were caught in the act of leaning out of the rock itself to peek upon the scene beyond, looking in fondly upon the four other figures carved and independently placed into the center of the room where sunlight pools. The four central statues there are sitting, and in the middle of their roughly circular gathering is the most exactingly detailed fixture: a granite little girl crouched playfully with her knees bent and her arms raised, as if frozen in the act of preparing to launch herself gleefully into one of the surrounding women's arms. The author—the artist—gave her cherubic wings fashioned from clear quartz; the only worked piece of stone that didn't come from the cave itself. In the spill of the late morning sun the wings shine from her shoulder-blades ethereally, filled to every facet with golden light. Before now he's only ever seen it in the moonlight.

"Richard," Kate whispers, sounding quietly awed. His full given name sounds alien, and yet somehow fitting upon her lips—no one calls him 'Rick' in Montauk, never have and probably never will. Fitting, maybe, but even at modulated volume her voice wanders around the chamber in an echo that reverberates again and again, as if a chorus of women were quietly speaking the name back and forth amongst themselves: _Richard, Richard, Richard_.

He shivers badly, literally from head to toe. Minutes pass and he slowly settles. "It needed to be sculptures. The final refutation of that cursed Offering had to be made in a language Llewellyn understands, even if he never actually sees it."

A soft, scraping rasp draws the detective and author into a mutual glance backwards at John. It's written there in his face, the violent shift of paradigm the view has prompted. _Now you see me. It wasn't my intent, brother. Not here, like this._ The Sergeant backs off another step, not even seeming aware of the pair watching him. The width of his dark eyes reflects pinpricks from the spears of light glinting off of angelic wings.

Beckett, her chin lowering, her eyes narrowing into channels of obsidian in the gloom, steps away from Castle's side. There's something quietly unsettling about it. It's a liquidity to her motion, as of a descended Eve who claimed the role of sinuous serpent for herself. With a naturally subtle and sway of her hips she advances slowly, purposefully, until standing directly before the other man. John stands taller and thicker, but his scrunched posture looks somehow smaller by comparison.

"I feel for your plight," the detective murmurs, "but it doesn't excuse such willful blindness. I invited you here to realize exactly what I can see you've finally gotten through that thick skull of yours." The officer's gaze is on her now. They gape wider still if possible, filled to overflowing with a visceral skittishness, as if he were primed to flee but tethered by the woman's seething anger. "I feel for the others in this town too," she hisses, and lifts onto her toes before the man. She kisses his cheek, soft and brief. John yelps as if branded, stumbling away. Venom laces the detective's words as they bare themselves, like fangs only visible after the kiss of death has already been administered, "Tell them what you've seen here. I hope it burns through this town like _wildfire_ , and if there's any justice left here, you'll taste the ashes of it in every meal for the next three fucking decades!"

The Sergeant jerks himself around, slipping onto one knee in his haste, and scrambles awkwardly back through the passage. Thunderous footfalls of retreat are audible for long seconds afterwards, maybe all the way back to the barn. _Now we're brothers in a new, sad way, bound by being chased from here by our terrible specters of guilt._ It pains the author to witness, and yet no word of reproach surfaces towards his sole remaining company. None at all.

 _My God, Kate..._

Castle is too stunned to say or do anything even if the word were available.

When the woman turns back around, her anger is already in the swift process of waning. It yields to a shocking glimpse of sorrow, perhaps even regret, though surely not for saying what she did—Kate says precisely what she means to. Before he can discern the true target she sighs aloud and weariness draws itself over her slender form like a cloak about her shoulders. Half walking, half seeming to glide closer, his companion merges against him with a slide of her arms around his waist. "Sorry," she murmurs softly. "I really didn't want you here for that."

A sympathetic fear still trickles through his veins alongside the pounding of his blood. "He's not a bad man."

"No, he's not. Maybe that makes me a bad woman. You know what? I'll live with it."

"You invited him along intending to do that." She doesn't deny it. "Since when? Last night?"

"Since you had a horrible dream," Beckett returns by way on confirmation, smoothing the surface of him with unsettling tenderness, "and in the process of it, told me what really happened out here."

The words make him arch where he stands as if a bull whip had been lashed across his back. "Y-you don't know what happened here. You can't. Don't...don't do this to me, okay? Please? It's fine to believe what you want, but don't try to convince me too. There's no way to be certain. I didn't bring you here to fix this, Beckett."

"Foolish man," she whispers, tightening her grip when he attempts to ease away from her. "I don't believe you need fixing. You know the truth. Part of you does. I heard you, Castle."

"It was just a bad dream." One he doesn't even rightly recall now.

"Everything that happened here is right there in the evidence no one looks at. This isn't some fledgling theory. I just didn't have the proper lens to see it until you helped, the same way you have so many other times."

"But you don't know," he repeats, irrationally frightened, struggling to push her away. "You can't. And that's okay. I built a life around all of this. Nothing has changed." The woman's grip on him refuses to be so easily dissuaded, and he hasn't the heart to be violent about it. She knows that too. _No. Not 'too'! She doesn't know anything!_

"We've changed, Castle. Otherwise, I might let you go on thinking...whatever you need to. We're past that. I 'm not leaving you behind in your guilt, not when there's such beautiful things waiting for us on the other side of it." Heaven help him, at that moment the man has no good rebuttal to offer. Only irrational fear. "Let's just do the end. Where you got lost."

"Kate, _please_ ," he says, more snarls.

"I'm so sorry. I know it hurts. Only for a little bit more, I promise."

The survivor finds his anger. The grip on her arms will surely bruise later from the force he unwittingly inflicts, but _still_ he can't shake her. She's too close. The leverage is all wrong. "Kate, let go. Let go! Get the _fuck off of me!_ "

Instead she lunges into him deeper, bodily. Her legs coils around him with such power he wouldn't be able to breathe if they were cinched around his chest instead. He stumbles backwards into the wall with a jarring impact against his shoulders and lower back, but the smoothness of the cavern's surfaces don't exact injury.

The detective's lips at his right ear are shockingly gentle by contrast, and a droplet of her grief on his behalf falls from her jaw to strike his neck. It stings like ice water. "Llewellyn brought the last five women here to make you play for him. And you did play, Rick, eventually. But not for him. You did it for Laura."

Oh dear god in heaven he can _see it_. No! He can't see shit. Can't look. It's not real. This is the townspeople all over again, only its polar opposite. It's just another version of the story someone else would prefer to be true.

"I bet when he led her inside she struck you just as you've depicted her over there, a stark beam of radiance in all this dismal dark. Like a sweet act of mercy on the eyes after what you'd been shown by Llewellyn up until that moment."

 _Stop, stop, stop!_

"That's what you saw. And she's what you put into your song, the same way you put those other people into their own special notes in the mall. John told me about that. It's not even a choice, is it? God, Castle, I'll never understand exactly how you do it, but for some reason I can comprehend it so clearly now." An unnerving tremor of veracity accompanies the certitude which already underscores the words. "I can almost touch it, its so real. You can't help but to see us, feel us, and express us. Once with music and then with words."

"Shut up," he demands, words he intended to bellow at the top of his lungs. They're hardly above a whisper though, and he isn't even sure they emerged intelligibly. He can't see clearly enough to fight her anymore. All the world's a painful, scalding blur, and his limbs feel so heavy.

"Then the impossible happened, didn't it?"

His body is wracked in silent protest, misery.

"You played for her, but Llewellyn heard you too, didn't he? Really heard you." _Please, God, make her stop._ As if sensing his desperation, the detective's voice begins to spill from her more quickly, the steady susurration of a deluge. "That's what I think, baby. You played for her, trying to comfort that poor little girl, and poured into the music the same thing you do into your books—every goddamn beautiful thing you have. They all heard it. But _he_ did too. And he stopped, didn't he? Did he see you?" _Yes, and...yes._ "Did he look at you like you were the first other person he'd perceived since the madness took hold as a much younger man?" _He did. He stared. So wide. Unblinking. Not even breathing._

"Last night in the den, you said 'Don't let go'. It was easy to imagine those poor women on the receiving end. But that's what it finally made it all click for me. You were talking to _him_. Llewellyn. Because he heard your song, saw _you_ behind the keys, and you glimpsed that in turn, didn't you? Because you were so aware for a boy your age. Somehow you managed to forge a connection to the slim glint of sanity left in all that darkness, something which was utterly absent when he took you from your house, or while he'd hurt those poor women in front of you. Seeing actual awareness in his eyes must have been as clear as a full moon at midnight after all of that, unmistakable for what it was."

The author unearths a grating reply. "There was nothing. And then...something."

"And you knew it was your only chance to get out of here alive. To get her out alive."

"But I was so tired," he says, more sobs out. "My hands. My _fucking hands_ wouldn't work. Why did he have to come right then?!" the author grits feverishly, savagely. "Why _then_? I couldn't make them go anymore. They were just...sticks. Useless stubs. I couldn't feel them moving, couldn't feel the blood on the keys."

Kate shudders against him, but her voice continues with clarity even under the obvious weight of sorrow, because she's strong in ways that he can hardly fathom sometimes. "I understand. You were exhausted, fucking traumatized. And as the song began to slip, he started to fade away again too, hmm? Like a sleepwalker coming back to consciousness."

"But backwards," Richard expels. "It was like someone going back to sleep. Back to his living nightmare."

"That stuff you said last night: 'you're not alone, never alone'. You tried to help him hang on to that moment, didn't you? But he couldn't. Words weren't enough. Music only worked because it played into his delusion. Without that tether he slipped away," she concludes quietly, and hovers a long moment before adding, "but the women didn't, did they?"

His eyes close as tightly as he can, but there's no denying the torrent that's racing through the jagged hole she punched in this dam. "Maybe not," he issues, but his voice breaks on the second word. "Maybe not. I don't know."

"I think you do, babe. I think that detail is behind a lot of the blame you wrongly carry. You woke the women up too, or some fashion of that. Something that at least managed to pierce the drugs in their systems and induce enough clarity to give them a chance to act. And they did. Of course they did." She strokes his back. "They wanted to protect you."

The mounting exhaustion is suddenly overwhelming, but he puts up what fight he can manage. "You don't know."

"They tore themselves free of their moorings." He shudders badly, seeing it. _Hearing_ it. "And they brought Llewellyn down together. Just for a little bit and, sadly, not enough to keep him from killing that sweet girl. But enough for you to run. Didn't they tell you to run?" _So loudly._ _So loudly there wasn't room in the pounding of my head for even thinking about anything else._ "They did enough for you to get away and find someone to help."

"Help," Richard echoes, his voice empty, bottomless. "There was no helping. Not Laura. And not them, not after...ripping their bodies free of the wires they way they did."

"It led swiftly to exsanguination. I know." Beckett strokes down his hair and the nape of his neck. The grip of her legs around him eases and lowers away one at a time. She stands on her own again, but without having given him an inch of breathing room. "That's not your fault. None of it was. I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry, Castle. I only want you to know. But if you really can't, even now, I hope you'll keep having faith in my certainty of it. I know who the killer is."

"I'm so tired," he issues numbly, listing back against the wall. He feels hollowed out, another empty seashell on the beach.

"Its okay to be."

"Some of the things you said...I saw them. Maybe more than just 'some'."

She strokes his right cheek. "That's okay too."

"How can I ever be sure it wasn't what I wanted to see though? How do you trust something like that?" She slides her arms around him again and this time he's so very glad for it. The texture and scent of her are a balm. There's no reply though. It takes a moment to realize she's already given it. "Faith," he mutters.

"The evidence is on my side. If they'd looked...if _anyone_ had really looked, they would have seen. I'm sorry they found themselves so twisted up inside that it was somehow easier for them to blame you for Laura. I'm sorry that the whole ordeal was such a horrible experience that you found it so easy to believe them in kind, or that you felt it necessary to allow them to believe. That is not okay. You don't owe them anything. And the women who helped save you... They didn't do what they did so that you could live to inflict your own version of torture upon yourself."

"Your letter. That was a good letter." He isn't making any sense. "You're right. I know. I just mean, there's so much to think about."

She hums a brief sound of agreement in reply. In its wake they are quiet and still for so long the author think he's fallen asleep on his feet, but then her body shifts to a more comfortable stance against his.

He says, "You scared John."

"Who, me? Nah."

"Scared him shitless."

"Don't swear. That's so unattractive."

It takes the longest time before he huffs with the realization that she's picking on him, playing with him, even in such an unlikely place and time. "Scared me too," he mumbles. "You're so beautiful, so smart for someone so damned frightening."

"Look who's talking, Master of the Macabre. I much prefer that within your works of fiction."

He sighs, recalling his own reactions and mantling with shame. "Did I?"

"Yeah."

"I scared you?"

"Maybe a smidge. I mean, maybe when you described the end of the goddamn world earlier I might've peed a little bit. Big deal. Does that mean I was _scared_?" She scoffs through her nose and rolls those gorgeously dark eyes. "Whatever."

"Gross." _And yet also hilarious. "_ You're the best medicine ever, I swear."

She laughs softly, and his limbs are lured into a tighter squeeze of her lithe frame.

"I'm sorry. My goodness. I'm out of it. My brain, hell, my everything is utterly annihilated right now."

"I know. You're fine. Well, you will be, I promise."

"You really do, don't you? You _know_."

Beckett leans back in his arms enough to allow their eyes to meet. She's so beautiful, her profile striking as she turns to look at the statues beyond them. "Look at them, Rick. Really look. That isn't what you seem to think it is. Guilt doesn't even resemble what you've created here. That's love, babe, a gorgeous celebration of it. Sure as we're standing here."

"Love doesn't necessarily imply innocence."

Kate arches an eyebrow. "I sure hope not. I still have lots to show you, and precious little of it is gonna be innocent."

It blows his mind to think of them during the ride out here. She was worried about what was coming, and he was the one with all the assurances that it was ancient history, that he had learned to live around it. Now, at the close of the matter, she's as radiant as the beacon of Montauk Point Light guiding him back to that idea like a ship mired in coastal mists and seeking safe harbor.

Castle's smile unfurls against his will. The expression is tentative at first, battered even. It isn't nearly as sure or wide as hers.

But it's there. It will survive.

* * *

 **A/N** : Phew. Well, there you have it, folks. I hope the ending was sufficient to tie off most of the remaining loose ends. Some are meant to dangle. More than that though, I hope it finishes as satisfactorily as it could given that, technically speaking, it's no ending to their story at all. The mythology established here is something I hope to build upon.

I'm grateful for your company throughout the journey. It blows _my_ mind how some of you managed to glimpse certain details of the wording, plot, or characterization which, frankly, I expect to go overlooked. It's fun to see them show up in a PM or review. As a writer, one can only hope the final result rewards that kind of attention. Until next time.


	16. Bloopish Reel

**A/N** : When it comes to the darker elements of storytelling, outlets of much needed levity pour in from all sides during the early drafts. For me, that's simply a part of the process. Call it a defense mechanism of the heart, or the consequence of picturing the characters as my partners-in-crime as opposed to merely moveable parts. I allow the crazy to pour in as it pleases and then cut it later in editing to a dedicated 'blooper' file. Most stories I write have one. I keep 'em to chuckle over later on lazy rainy days, but also to remind myself that no ambitions of serious storytelling will ever seperate me from peers in the fandom who focus on the fluffier stuff. At the end of the day we all want crazy wonderful things for our two principal characters.

After discussing all of this with a friend last night while we were watching the Castle FanFic Stream, I decided/was-belligerently-ordered to add a final, belated section here for a handful of the many silly tid-bits that cropped up throughout the writing of Secret. Maybe it'll become a new tradition for my tales.

* * *

"But this past year working with you..." she trails off with an sweep of her gaze to encompass their surrounds. "I've had a really good time."

Even though she's caught him off guard, bemused him with their sudden seclusion from the others, the author doesn't hesitate to broadcast agreement with mirrored lifts at the corners of his mouth. "Me too."

It's like gasoline poured over a fire, fueling her sputtering flame of courage. In fact her smile threatens to spill wide open and leave her stupefied before him. The detective manages to plow onward, "So I'm just going to say this—"

"Uh," Castle interjects with a lofted hand and index finger, a rueful curl at his lips. "I'm sorry. Interruptions, I know, right? But that beer bottle your holding has been sweating like a dripping faucet this whole time, and the condensation is..." He lowers his eyes meaningfully. Her white dress shirt has a wet blotch situated neatly over her left nipple.

Beckett scrunches her lips around a hidden smile while glancing down at it. "I'm more nervous than I thought about this dialogue. Leaky nervous. Gimme a break here, would ya? It's our big moment."

"Oh, I don't blame you. I blame the crew. Who's department is leaky nipple anyway? Make-up, special effects?"

The detective snorts and glances up impatiently with her hands lofted from her sides, "Little help here, author!"

"For real. This isn't a pregnancy fic. Put a clamp on that thing and let's go."

* * *

"Aw." He turns to look at her in surprise, and Beckett swats his shoulder. "Shush, you. I like kids. Especially when they're just visiting," she stipulates discreetly close to his ear, and her companion chuckles deeply. "What's the hold up here then? What do you need?"

"You're the hold up. We're looking at the ice cream, not pizza or beer. Pick a flavor already." He reaches in after chiding her and pulls out a pint of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. _Yum._ She hesitates a moment as another female shopper pauses at the next glass door over, smirks, and points Castle to a tub of plain chocolate on the bottom shelf.

"Simple, but delicious," he affirms, leaning over to reel it in.

The detective clicks her tongue at her neighbor, garnering arched eyebrows in reply, and cants her head to the bent author's backside. _Checkout needed in frozen foods._ Without warning she snags her companion at his hips and bumps at him with a few thrusts of her pelvis. "Aw, yeah. Here's a little rocky road for you, baby."

"Hey, dammit." He swats ineffectively backwards at her right hip. "Stop that!"

"That ain't my name. Say it!"

Castle growls, dropping the pints and pulling himself upright and out of the cooler doorway to scowl at her.

The detective falls to lilting laughter, and so does the woman shopping nearby. Rick's mantling upset only elicits further, tear-inducing gales of it from both of them. "Oh god," Kate gasps at length. "I'm so sorry. That was less OOC in my head. Go again. I got this, I swear." She hustles at him with shooing waves of both hands. "Go, go, go."

* * *

"Jesus, Castle..." Beckett murmurs, and turns onto a wide, private road in good repair. The slope proves less extreme than it appears. The grounds encompass at least five acres, maybe six. The wooded west, which they're approaching from, seems to be the lesser. She already knows from a picture Castle showed her on his cell that the east goes all the way down to the sands of a private beach. Largely open lawn unfolds to the south. A few isolated stands of trees are visible here and there. The northern sprawl hosts an L-shaped leg of the home, a two-story, four-car garage with the same wood-shingled exterior as the rest of the place. "Should I pull in there," she asks uncertainly, "or out front?"

The passenger, nose buried in his cell phone, looks up at her. "Huh?"

She blinks back at him and frowns. "The car? In the garage, or out front?"

"Uh..."

Beckett shakes her head at him. "Seriously? You're ruining our flow."

"Naw," he drawls, but with some uncertainty as he looks out the windows for himself. "We're, uh, transitioning."

"No, this is part of the scene."

"Is it? That's, uh, my mistake then. My bad."

"Your _bad_?" She huffs and gesture to his phone, "What the heck is so fascinating that it comes before our AU?"

The author shifts on his seat with a slant of his lips, a sure sign that his tank of excuses is running near empty with the warning light on. Honesty is his chosen recourse. "Another AU actually. That fic-rec at the end of this chapter? In my defense, this is good stuff. I get to be a fireman in this one. I'm buff."

"Yeah? Well in _this_ one you pay atten—wait. Buff?"

"Yep."

The detective looks at the house ahead and back at him. "How buff?"

"I'm tight," Castle replies, nodding and grinning to have led her into distraction. "And I've got a tattoo."

Beckett moistens her lips unconsciously, and taps at the steering wheel with the fingers of one hand a moment. "What's the rating?"

"You mean...do we get it on?" She rolls her hazel eyes with a shake of her head that finishes with her facing the driver's side window. "Because—spoiler alert—yeah, we sure do. And the writing involved, up to and including that scene?" He kisses his fingertips with a smack of his lips in illustration.

 _Screw it._ She leans over. "Lemme see."

"No way. Get your own, nosy-Nancy."

* * *

Beckett eases the tension in her neck with a roll of her head upon it. She's peripherally aware of her co-star swishing his arms outwards and inwards a few times at chest height, flapping stretches to loosen his shoulders. They gradually settle and she confirms her place on her marker, facing the phone set to ring and start their scene.

In the idleness of the wait, the man at her back, easily bored, reaches out and snaps the stretchy waistline of her boyshorts against her backside. With a hiss, she whirls, slapping at his chest. "Stop it, fucker."

The man only grins though, arms lofted in a half-hearted measure of self-defense. "That one reviewer was right. You do swear a lot. Especially the f-bomb. What's up with that?"

Kate shrugs, but with a sudden thought her gaze narrows into playful slits. "Hey, speaking of that four-letter word..."

Castle lifts his brows above arrested blue-eyed attention.

"Did you know the first draft of this chapter had us starting out at night?"

"No," he answers, frowning a touch like a kid picked last for kickball. "Wait. Night as in tonight, or a continuation of last night?"

"Last night," she replies with a wide smile.

He wets his lips and takes a deep breath. "That was a good night for us."

She hums approval. "Yes, it was."

"What, uh—what was the scene?"

"I woke up to pee."

"Again with that? Sounds like the writer has a kinky fetish."

"Well, it's not like there's a paragraph detailing it, Castle. That's just what woke me up. _Anyway_ ," Beckett continues pointedly, turning to face him fully for easier communication, "I go downstairs for a glass of water afterwards."

"That seems a bit counter-productive. Ah, nothing. Go on, please."

"While I'm standing at the sink, I hear sounds coming from your room."

Rick grimaces, mantles just slightly, and looks away. "Well, it was a good night for us, but it wasn't exactly what we could call a finisher in terms of satisfaction. There _would_ be noises from my room afterwards."

Kate guffaws two distinct high notes of humor, leaning into him with her hands braced at his chest. " _Not_ the kind of noises I'm talking about. You're having a bad dream. I dunno it yet when I hear you, but I figure it out once I make my way in there."

"Am I lying there bare-assed?"

"Well, yes, but you're covered. Mostly. You're thrashing and all. It's a nightmare."

"And you wake me up."

"Not right away," she teases, and leaves it there.

The other arches a bored eyebrow at her delay, crossing his arms. "Is that supposed to be a cliff-hanger? I don't need to hear this."

"Oh, you want to though."

"Says you."

"Says me. Damn straight. It's h-a-w-t hot."

The man's eyebrows arise again in surprise, but he immediately scrunches his lips in a show of doubt. "Last night was hot too, and look how that ended." She lifts one shoulder carelessly and turns away. "Okay, _fine_. Please tell me more."

Smirking with satisfaction, the woman conceals it as she turns halfway back to view him askance beneath an arched eyebrow of her own. "I suppose I could, sure. If you can promise me that you just snapped me in the ass for the very last time."

A cocky smirk eases into place upon the author's features. "You might want to be a little more specific with that stipulation. I can imagine there being a time and place for some ass-swatting in your bed, detective."

 _Oh. Er...one moment._

"Barring a mutually accepted context," Kate clarifies at length with a swoop of her eyes to one side and away from his broadening grin.

"Deal."

The phone rings.

"Aw," Castle complains immediately. "No way! Don't you dare answer that. This scene will wait."

"Well, I did promise..." She leans away to snatch up the cordless receiver, shushing him with a swish of her hand in the air when his mouth falls open in preparation to wail. "Lanie?"

"Um...yeah. Am I—I think you've missed a few lines there. Unless there's been an edit?"

"No, no, you're good. Just gimme ten more minutes, okay? I gotta finish something first."

"Oh? Fantastic. I've got a warm meatball hoagie over here and it's the bomb. Do your thang, honey."

Kate blinks at the phone, but shakes her head and sets it to one side. "Where was I?"

Castle huffs impatiently and checks his watch. "First draft. A scene from last night. Nightmare," he mutters, "coincidentally enough."

"Right," the woman replies. "So, there you are tossing and turning," she confides, stepping back into him and lowering her voice as if keeping it just between them. "And I sit down next to you on the bed and reach out to smooth your hair. It's kinda sweet really. You calm down, but don't wake up."

"Nice," Rick agrees, but remains unimpressed. "I can see why it was cut though. We already have a nightmare scene slated."

"Yeah, well, after I get you calmed down...I wake you up." She glances around them both, prompting him to frown in bemusement and do the same. "With a blowjob," she finishes in a stage-whisper.

" _What?!"_

The detective startles away from his shocked bellow, laughs. "Yep."

"Are you _serious_?"

"As a heart attack."

"I'm gonna have one right now!" the author fumes. "Why the hell did that get cut out of the final draft?"

"I dunno."

"You better not be screwing with me about this." She laughs again, a belly-deep unfurling of amusement. He catches onto the double-entendre quickly, but it only seems to worsen his despair. "That is so messed up."

"Yeah, it kinda is. I mean," she reaches for him, stroking his right arm soothingly, "if this had gone as originially planned?" The detective tip-toes to rest her chin at his shoulder, her mouth at his ear, "I'd have a piece of you inside me right now. 'Cause, you know, I'm no quitter, babe." She's never seen a man so torn between arousal and desolation.

"Welp, I do quit," her co-star declares and throws his arms up, stalking off.

"Hey, our scene! Aw, c'mon."

Nope. He thumps out the double deck doors with a rattling crack of them against the wall to either side and without so much as a backwards glance before they rebound closed. _Oops._

* * *

"Alright, enough," Beckett voices as she follows after him. The truck bleats behind them as the officer locks up in their wake. Her eyes skim the mundane exterior of their destination without discerning its function before they lower to her companion again. Far from intimidated, he looks only perturbed by the delay of her cross-armed halt upon the sidewalk. "Say whatever you want to say to me, John. I'm serious. Let's get it out of the way right now. I've got enough on my mind without you tip-toeing around whatever thorn is stuck in your butt."

The Sergeant doesn't merely not reply. He doesn't even react.

Beckett eases in closer and he blinks at the advance. Slowly, she reaches out for him.

"What're you—

She touches down and rubs a circle around the crown of his smooth-shaven head, closes her eyes. "I wanna pony."

The man barks a note of laughter, but swats her away with an attempted scowl. "Lamps are for wishes, dummy. Bald heads are for luck."

"You married a Genie. Close enough."

"You're getting close enough to a harassment suit."

* * *

Beckett exhales a swift puff of a breath, nods more slowly in agreement. Then tilts her head somewhat, recalling what Castle said about the Sergeant's father being the lead on the case, how it has lingered with the family to this very day. "You didn't mention where you weigh in on that."

John stares at her for a long moment. She watches with her muscles tensing in apprehension as his gaze softens in a swift and subtle display of sadness. Then he turns slowly away, moving to the cabinets.

With a mock snarl the detective lunges forward and springs onto the man's back. He stumbles forward a step with a grunt of surprise, but he's too big for her meager weight to move far. "That's bold eyeballing coming from an OC," she growls, tickling at his ribs and earning an immediate yelp of laughter. "That's right, tough-guy, you're fodder at my whim!"

Between unmanly squealing giggles and a brutish shaking of his body in attempts to dislodge her the man howls, "Get off!"

Kate gasps and swats his shoulder, "I'm your best friend's girl, you heathen. Get off indeed. I'm telling. You're toast, red shirt."

* * *

He parks behind the sleek and newly dubbed 'Connie'. Beckett meets him at the driver's side door before he can even close up after himself in a lunging crush of a hug and a fierce kiss that dissolves wondering about her reception one way or the other for several seconds. He's dimly aware of her capturing and slowly lifting one of his hands partially into place over the pert, yielding curve of her left breast. The galloping of the heartbeat beneath the flesh gradually arises through the mind-numbing haze of eroticism.

Castle startles lightly when Beckett starts squirming and laughing against his mouth. He sighs, but grins too with good-natured patience as they come apart—for the fourth time.

The detective sobers slowly, massages a palm gently against her breast. "Damn it," she huffs, and quivers with a final trickle of humor. "Sorry. Again. It tickles!"

"See? You're doing it wrong," John calls over, but the taunt only earns an amused eye-roll from Rick.

"Just...try to use only your fingers," Kate suggests. "It's when your palm scrapes against me that I lose it."

Her partner's eyebrows soar, but he swallows what comes to mind first, coughs once, and nods a few times in quick succession. "I'll, uh, try, yeah."

They reclaim their places from the start of the paragraph and enact the movements again, delving into the moment of tense emotion bound to reigned passion. _So far so very good._ She slides his hand onto her breast again and for a moment he thinks they have it. And the next Kate jerks back as if she'd been fondled by a live wire.

"Ugh," she grunts, bending at the waist to catch her breath with one hand sheltering her overly sensitized mound and the other braced supportively on a knee.

Castle, blinking, fumbles the words through swollen lips begging for take six."Damn, really? I swear I used my fingers!"

"Y-yeah, you certainly did." Beckett mantles subtly and shakes her head with a swirl of her dark hair.

John chortles from nearby. "Wow. Sounds like it went _too_ right that time. I rescind my questioning of your ability."

"Quiet, you!"

* * *

Even that light dims in places. It deepens to oranges and reds that ebb and surge in time to the slow churning of the tempest in the valley's center. The lifeblood of the planet is drawn inexorably out. Striations of it glare out from the impossible funnel like great slashes of eyes, winking and vanishing only to reappear in new places. It flows up into the sky and crawls out into the clouds like networks of veins, or lightning that struck with customary brilliance and forgot to fade afterwards. Instead it lingers and pulsates with the glow of magma from below, waxing and waning to the ceaseless, soundless churning of the maelstrom.

An elbow in his left side jars the author out of his thoughts. John arches an eyebrow at him.

"What's up?"

"Hey, yeah. Um, listen, is that the imagery you really wanna go with?"

"Huh?"

"Do you hear yourself? I mean...it could be creepy. _Or_ it could be the mentality of a guy who's still a little bent out of shape about a certain scene getting edited out. A whirlwind...sucking stuff up?" He slants his eyebrows in disapproval and then jabs a hand with the fingers curled towards his cheek a couple times, tonguing the other cheek in the obscene imagery associated with fellatio.

" _What?_ " the author squawks. "You're the only pervert within a hundred frigging miles who could come up with...with that..." He blinks, following the man's gaze over to Beckett.

She grins broadly at him. "Dessert." And then winks shamelessly with a clicking of her tongue.

"I can't work like this," Castle grumbles, stalking back down the dirt road.

* * *

A miasma of oil and diesel fuel arises from the John Deere tractor parked centrally and covered by a canvas tarp. The brush and field mower is still hitched to its rear from the last time Rick tended to the property. Not a rustle or creak disturbs the thick drape of silence lain over the place.

Castle makes the other two startle sharply when he bursts into song. "She thinks my tractor's sex-ey-eey. It really turns her oooon!" He kicks the heel of his shoe against the dirt and turns, two-stepping up against Beckett to nudge shoulders.

She lifts a long-suffering gaze towards the ceiling. "Why God? Why me?"

"She's always starin' at mee-eee, while I'm chuggin' along." He bumps her hip with his, then again, and again. She snarls and pushes at him roughly to nearly no effect, except that they're close enough for him to bump her in the ass with his pelvis. _Sonofamotherfuc_ —

"She likes the way it's pullin' while we're tillin' up the land. She's even kinda crazy 'bout my farmer's tan. She's the only one who really understa-ands what gets meeee. She thinks my tractor's sexy!" Ignoring him doesn't help either, it only makes her an easier target for him to bump, bump, bump at like a goddamn dog humping her thigh.

Worse, it allows a resigned bubble of laughter to burst free of her.

"Real professional," John comments with a grin, gasping for a breath and wiping at one eye.

* * *

"I feel for your plight," the detective murmurs, so quietly Rick strains to hear clearly. "But I invited you here to realize exactly what I can see you've finally gotten through that thick skull of yours." The officer's gaze is on her now. They gape wider still if possible, filled to overflowing with a visceral skittishness, as if he were primed to flee but tethered by the woman's seething anger. "I feel for the others in this town too," she hisses, and lifts onto her toes before the man. She kisses his cheek—

And the swift little sneak turns into it, so that before she can check herself they're mouth-to-mouth instead. She tugs back in surprise with a little popping sound, blinking at his sudden grin. _Um?_

"Meh, heh, heh," the Sergeant cackles tauntingly to them, and turns to hustle back down the corridor with his 'prize' secured.

"Bastard," Kate accuses with a disgruntled twitch of her nose.

"Ah, let him go," Castle offers mildly. "Our shippers will hunt him down wherever he tries to hide."

* * *

"Love doesn't necessarily imply innocence."

Kate arches an eyebrow. "I sure hope not. I still have lots to show you, and precious little of it's gonna be innocent."

"I'll believe that when I damn well see it," he snaps, but then his eyes widen in surprise at his own outburst.

"Oh-ho," the woman expels, half laughing, half sympathizing. She pats his chest consolingly. "Poor guy. That editing business really bothers you, huh?"

"It's not funny. We're already M-rated. I mean, come on!"

Beckett smiles despite herself. "It's a little funny."

He turns away from her and prods at the floor a bit with the toe of his shoe. She watches his broad shoulders lift with a deep breath and then fall. When he turns to face her again seriousness has claimed sole residence.

"Aww," she issues quietly. "I'm sorry, you're right. It's not that funny. Um," she casts about for a better means of soothing him. "There's supposed to be a sequel...or something. I'll definitely suck your cock in the sequel, okay?"

"Will it, Kate? Will it be okay? This writer...I'm not sure he's reliable. I think we need to get our agents on this."

"Uh...our fictional agents? For our fan-fictional careers?"

"We can do better, that's all I'm saying. Our UST was award-winning! You and me? We deserve...w-we deserve chezchuckles!"

"Do you maybe wanna sit down? You look a little peaked."

"No, I do not," the man fumes, stalking back and forth across the cavern floor before her. "I want Advent Calenders, Kate. I want the Beth Series. And...damn it, woman, I want you to say 'piqued' not 'peaked'. We don't even have a beta. That just furthers my argument!"

"Seriously, Castle, stop. You're gonna agitate... _him._ And with a nom de guerre like that? I don't think it's gonna end especially well for us. Let's just chill."

"You chill. I'm walking. Hear me up there, you hack? I. AM. OU—


End file.
